


For Lack of a Better Name

by Nanoochka



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst and Humor, Awkward Conversations, Awkward Sexual Situations, College, Fake/Pretend Relationship, First Time, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Graduation, Jealousy, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Pack Dynamics, awkwardness in general
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-24
Updated: 2013-11-22
Packaged: 2017-11-12 19:52:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 68,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/495062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nanoochka/pseuds/Nanoochka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As real problems go, Stiles's rate pretty low. To date, he is not and has never been a homicidal werelizard; he scored 2190 on the SATs; he does not spend as much time plucking his eyebrows in the morning as some of the werewolves he knows. On the other hand, he’s going to die a freaking virgin. Well, Stiles is going to change that before he starts college in September or die trying, and he's thinking Derek might be just the ticket.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I know I promised myself and everyone else that I would never post a WIP again for the greater good of humanity, but this story has been rattling around in my noggin for a while and I couldn't resist! Forgive me, fanfiction gods. Meanwhile, this part is rated Teen/PG-13, and eventually the rating will go up to Explicit/NC-17.
> 
> Many thanks and air kisses to blue_fjords and akadougal for being fantastic betas. Any remaining errors are my own.

     Stiles was very much still a teenager when the acceptance letter from UC Berkeley arrived in his mailbox, but his father the Sheriff not only turned a blind eye to this fact, but went so far as to buy Stiles a beer to mark the occasion. It was unexpected and a bit baffling for an officer of the law to be promoting drinking to underage kids, since Scott was also invited, but not only was Stiles not stupid enough—hello, _Berkeley_ , it was now official—to turn down a good thing when he saw it, but he couldn’t bear to rob his dad of his happiness. If Jack Stilinski wanted to exercise his God-given right to buy his eighteen-year-old son and his son’s best friend beer, then by all means, Stiles would let the man buy beer.

     Of course, the stipulation was that Stiles had to drink it at the kitchen table with his father present. But as Jack glibly pointed out when he cracked the neck of his bottle against Stiles’s in a toast, “If you’re going to drink in celebration, which I know you probably will, I’d rather you do it under my roof.” To Scott he said, “Don’t tell your mother.”

     By that logic, Stiles couldn’t really argue with the guy, and it wasn’t like he hadn’t gotten drunk before. Stiles and JD went way back. At least he _could_ still get drunk, whereas Scott had to politely sip his beer and pretend the alcohol had any effect on him whatsoever. Both Stiles and Jack were all too happy to go along with the charade, however, and after one bottle Stiles was buzzed enough to ignore not only Scott’s sobriety, but the fact that his father was cheerfully regaling them with every testament to Stiles’s childhood dumbassery he could think of. No one needed to hear about Stiles’s brief career as a nudist, _no one_ , and yet Stiles supposed they’d been through enough in the last couple years for Jack to have earned a free pass. Besides, Stiles was college bound now, and there was more than enough time for him to replace those embarrassing stories with new ones.

     The pride shining out of his Jack’s eyes when he commented on how happy Stiles’s mom would’ve been at this moment made something clench deep in Stiles’s chest. Though he’d never doubted his father’s love for him, not once, hearing the joy in those words helped make up for the shame Stiles sometimes felt when he thought about the grief he’d caused their family over the years, inadvertently or otherwise. He was making good on all of Jack’s sacrifices and returning honor to the Stilinski clan. Or something.

     And so the night went.

     Honor notwithstanding, Stiles was nonetheless a bit startled to come home from school the following day and discover that the acceptance letter had vanished from the kitchen counter and reappeared in the downstairs hallway, next to the hanging photographs of their family. In a _frame_. Evidently Jack paid a visit to the local art store to have the damn thing mounted, and that was just… a step beyond anything Stiles was ready to accept. This wasn’t framed evidence of his awesomeness like his father seemed to think. No, not even close. Because the more Stiles thought about what it meant and what September would bring, the more he realized this was merely evidence of the one great, glaring failure in his life, something everyone else around him had achieved while Stiles struggled to catch up.

     After they’d finished the six-pack the previous night and Jack went up to bed, Stiles and Scott had hopped into Stiles’s Jeep—Scott driving—and blared some pretty obnoxious music all the way to Derek’s. By unspoken agreement, that was where the real celebration was to take place, and Stiles could tell by how Scott was excitedly vibrating the whole way that the pack was in a great mood.

     The “party,” if it could be called that, was in full swing when they arrived. Nearly a full year of restoration had brought Derek’s old house very close to completion, and someone had convinced the Alpha to let them blare frankly obnoxious electronica on the new sound system in the living room. _Teenagers_ , Stiles thought fondly, and then they joined the fun. In deference to his dad, Stiles refrained from drinking anything else, but was pretty content to watch his friends’ antics carry on around him as the pack toasted to the future and everything they hoped it would bring.

     Lydia and Jackson, by then a package deal once more, had both been accepted to Stanford; everyone else was either staying in Beacon Hills to become responsible members of society or heading to other colleges within the state. Derek, of course, would do neither, but in the slightly more mellowed-out state he’d achieved in the last three years, seemed pretty happy to live off his insurance money and watch his pack go on to chase their dreams around him. While it was implicit that everyone should remain within a day’s drive of each other so that pack meetings could still take place with something resembling regularity, they were for the most part leaving Beacon Hills behind and embracing the first day of the rest of their lives, man.

     At first Stiles had sat back with a huge smile on his face and an enormous sense of benevolence towards his friends. Amazing how well things had worked out for them, he thought, against all the odds. Once upon a time, it’d seemed like this day might never come. With that in mind, it was easier than easy to feel good, to feel at peace. He’d looked fondly at Scott and Allison cuddling on the couch, troubled times behind them, and smiled to himself at Boyd and Erica bickering over the television remote like there wasn’t a thing amiss in their world; the others were off elsewhere doing things it was probably impolite to think about. Stiles took all this in and eventually found himself facing an uncomfortable feeling, one it’d been possible to ignore while they were still busy trying to get into good schools or, hell, trying not to end up dead from whatever supernatural force was threatening their collective existence at any given point in time.

     Stiles mostly forgot about it the next day, or at least forced the unrest back into the lockbox he kept buried someplace out of reach. He was good at that. What some people called denial, Stiles called good survival instincts. But looking at that framed letter spoiled his Zen somewhat and brought the ugliness flooding back. That letter held a promise, which naturally was what his dad wanted to commemorate—a promise of the amazing things to come just a few short months from now. His last summer as a kid, even though Stiles hadn’t felt like a kid in a long while.

     The queasiness began to rise in his stomach again.

     Slapping a hand over his mouth, Stiles rushed into the upstairs bathroom and knelt by the toilet so he could pretend like it was all owing to the mystery meat he’d eaten for lunch. Problem was, he couldn’t even summon a dry heave. So instead he lay on the floor and stared up at the faded peach paint on the ceiling, which his mother had probably picked out.

     He should feel a bigger sense of accomplishment, right? Berkeley wasn’t just any damn school, everyone said so; their liberal arts program was world renowned. Even Lydia hadn’t managed to summon any amount of scorn when Stiles announced his big news. So why did it feel like he’d be starting college at a loss compared to his friends? Even Scott, who was quite happily looking forward to his first semester at the local community college, had something Stiles didn’t.

     Because really—Scott and Allison. Lydia and Jackson. Erica and Boyd. Isaac and Aimee, the pretty junior he’d started dating around the end of last year.

     Stiles wasn’t just the third fucking wheel anymore—he was the ninth. Throw in a few more smug marrieds and he’d be the spare tire on the undercarriage of a transport truck.

     Maybe if Stiles were ugly enough to haunt a house, or even stupid or mean, his singleness might be easier to understand. But the last he’d checked, Stiles wasn’t any of those things. As far as he could tell, the biggest sin he’d committed was of being unremarkable. He was like George Michael’s girlfriend Ann from _Arrested Development_ : plain, but probably funny. Except Stiles _was_ funny. He was goddamned hilarious.

     And yet the whole world seemed to be pairing off without him.

     “These are not real problems,” he attempted to remind himself. “You are not and have never been a homicidal werelizard. You scored 2190 on the SATs. You do not spend as much time plucking your eyebrows in the morning as Derek.” His voice was about as convincing as a plea of not guilty from Charles Manson. “On the other hand, you’re going to die a freaking virgin.”

     “Who are you talking to?”

     The voice from the doorway startled Stiles so badly that in jackknifing upright he cracked his face off the edge of the toilet. Arms flailing, for a moment his vision swam and he groaned at the ache that immediately blossomed in his skull. With his luck, that would probably leave a mark, and there was nothing Stiles needed more than to finish off his last few weeks of high school looking like a domestic abuse victim. As he rubbed his forehead and cursed under his breath, he saw the two Dereks leaning against the doorframe rematerialize into one. Stiles’s mouth fell open in dismay, and he promptly collapsed back down against the floor tiles, face burning. He knew without having to be told that Derek had heard every word of his little outburst. Had, in fact, probably heard it coming down the street.

     Sure enough, a smirk played on Derek’s lips as he watched the train wreck that was Stiles unfold. Folding his arms across his chest, he added, “And what was that about my eyebrows?”

     Stiles thought resisting embarrassing impulses—like the urge to curl up into the fetal position—was overrated, so that’s just what he did, tucking his knees up against his chest while he covered his face in shame. “Oh my God, go away,” he exclaimed, the shout muffled by his hands. “Don’t you know to freaking _knock_ when someone is having a nervous breakdown?”

     “The door was open, and you’re not having a nervous breakdown.” There was a patient note to Derek’s voice that would’ve shocked Stiles to hear two years ago; but nor was he wholly surprised when Derek all but lifted him up by the scruff of the neck to set him back on his feet. “You’re just… being you. How’s your head?” Ignoring Stiles’s attempts to shoo him away, Derek took him by the chin and turned his face so he could inspect what was likely a bump forming at his temple.

     “Dude, I’m fine.” Finally managing to bat Derek’s hands away, Stiles shoved past him through the door and stomped into his bedroom with as much petulance as he thought he could get away with.

     He collapsed face first onto his bed, remembering at the last moment to turn the injured side of his head away from the pillow. Stiles only ever seemed to get like this around Derek, and not the other members of the pack. Out of everyone, a bunch of teenagers likely would’ve been a smidge more forgiving of Stiles’s childish impulses. Derek, on the other hand, consistently responded in the most appropriate way possible, which was to call Stiles an idiot. For some reason it was a comforting part of their routine Stiles felt more and more loath to relinquish as he grew up and matured. He had a growing suspicion he would miss it even more at Berkeley, even though it was only a few hours away by car.

     He thought he sensed Derek move to follow him, but instead the footsteps traveled away from him and down the stairs. He heard nothing after that, and Stiles wondered if Derek hadn’t given up on whatever was the reason for his visit and left. A puzzled “Ooookay” started to form on Stiles’s lips as he rolled over and sat upright, but then Derek reappeared in the doorway holding a package of frozen peas and a dishtowel.

     “Put this on your face,” Derek instructed, wrapping the peas in the towel before he tossed the icepack to Stiles. “Your dad will go crazy if you have a black eye at graduation.”

     “I’m sure it’ll go away on its own,” Stiles muttered, but accepted it with a nod of thanks. First aid seemed unnecessary in this situation, but Derek was using his quiet Alpha voice that made him difficult to disobey, even for Stiles. He supposed he should be glad it wasn’t a raw steak. It was also impossible to deny that the attention was kind of nice, and Stiles was in the right mood to accept a bit of mothering. “What are you doing here?” he asked as he pressed the icepack against his temple. “Don’t tell me some emergency has cropped up all of a sudden, because exams are next week.”

     Unusually for Derek, he stuffed his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket and stood awkwardly in the doorway, rather than appropriating Stiles’s desk chair or some other piece of furniture as was his wont. Though he still liked to treat Stiles’s bedroom—whole house, really, as his trip to the freezer could attest—like his personal property, Derek was for the most part less obnoxious about it these days. Or maybe Stiles had simply stopped being bothered by it. The important thing was that he didn’t get slammed up against half as many walls as he used to.

     In fact, recent history had seen him and Derek become alarmingly close to something like friends. Not only had they put their mutual animosity behind, but they’d established a healthy amount of trust and respect between them. In a lot of ways they shared the burden of looking after the other members of the pack, a strange co-parenting experiment whose implications Stiles tried not to think about overmuch. Still, he often found himself seeking Derek out when he needed a quiet moment away from the group, someone he could relax around without being burdened by additional problems or expectations. Scott was still his best friend, of course, but Stiles tended to connect more with Derek than the others, especially since it was increasingly more difficult to isolate his individual friends away from their significant others. Come to think of it, Derek’s single status probably had a lot more to do with why Stiles felt at ease around him than he cared to admit.

     “There’s no emergency,” Derek said at last. He seemed to be having some difficulty meeting Stiles’s eyes. “I just thought I’d come by to see if everything’s okay. Last night at the house you seemed a bit… off.”

     So that was it; Derek just sucked at showing concern like a normal person. Considering he was the least normal person Stiles knew, that explained a lot. “I’m fine,” he said again. “I was just tired and already kinda drunk from the beers I had beforehand. Nothing to get your panties in a bunch over.”

     “I don’t have my—” Cutting himself off, Derek scowled and finally lifted his gaze from the floor to make eye contact. “Look, I can tell the difference between when you’re tired and when you’re upset about something, and judging from the pep-talk you were giving yourself when I found you today…” Derek shrugged and raised his eyebrows in such a way that challenged Stiles to contradict him. “You’re obviously not ‘fine’.”

     Derek’s persistence was nothing new, but Stiles tried to dismiss it with an irritated grunt. “Okay, well, if you look behind door number two you’ll find the next option: I don’t want to talk about it.”

     Stiles might as well have been speaking Klingon for all Derek took the hint. His brow furrowed. “Why do you think you’re going to die a virgin?”

     Christ, were they actually doing this? Sure, Stiles had on a couple occasions confided in Derek about how much he still missed his mother, knowing the werewolf would understand and possibly even share the feeling, but talking about Stiles’s sex life strayed into territory he didn’t think he was equipped to deal with. There were still too many unknown variables he was trying to figure out himself, let alone share with Derek, the guy who’d contributed all too meaningfully to Stiles’s confusion in the first place. He’d endured months of praying Derek never noticed the way Stiles’s heart rate picked up around him before he could admit there might be a bigger reason for that.

     Even though open hostility was never an effective way to dissuade Derek from anything, Stiles couldn’t help the sarcasm that crept not-so-subtly into his voice. “Uh, well, let’s see. Maybe it’s because I _am_ a virgin, and have my life threatened on an almost weekly basis?”

     To Stiles’s horror, Derek took this as invitation to settle into the conversation, as he finally crossed the room to the desk chair and sat down, then leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. He looked up at Stiles with a frank expression, brow furrowed. “That may be the case, but you’re only eighteen. Not everyone dates in high school, and some of us who do get saddled with total headcases with a penchant for arson and murder.” Aside from Allison, Stiles figured he was the one person in the pack who knew enough about Derek’s history with Kate Argent for Derek to bring it up so casually. “I don’t see why your relationship status should affect your ability to be happy about getting into a great school. You should be celebrating, not moping. Furthermore, the chances you’ll meet girls there are pretty good.” Derek paused for a moment, considering, and Stiles saw the awkwardness creep back into the tenseness of his shoulders. Oh shit. “Or guys.”

     Stiles made a strangled sound and flopped onto his back. The icepack against his face meant he didn’t have to look directly at Derek, but that wasn’t good enough. If they were going to have this awful, awful conversation at all, and Derek was making it pretty clear he would persist despite Stiles’s protests, Stiles needed to be looking somewhere else entirely. Preferably the ceiling. He wondered if Derek would accept going home so they could have this conversation via text, or maybe Morse code.

     “Yeah, I’m sure there’ll be plenty of chances to meet guys there, too,” he echoed miserably. This was not happening. Stiles wasn’t even fully out to _himself_ yet, and here he was admitting to Derek Hale he might be in the midst of a sexuality crisis.

     Derek cleared his throat. “So what’s the problem?” The part of Stiles that didn’t currently wish he could curl up in the corner and die of mortification wanted to laugh at how terrorized Derek seemed by this exchange.

     “The _problem_ , Derek, is that I have exactly zero experience with anyone, male or female. Bupkis. Nada. Zilch.” Stiles shrugged, which he was pretty sure Derek couldn’t see him do on the bed. “I spent the last eleven years of my life chasing after someone who never gave me the time of day, so now not only am I going to have the shittiest summer ever watching all the happy couples frolic around me in the sunshine, but I’m going to go off to college expecting something good to come of the fact that I have no clue what I’m doing. Doesn’t exactly translate to a healthy amount of confidence, dude.” And everyone knew there was nothing a potential love interest found more attractive than a scrawny, insecure virgin with ADHD.

     Something that sounded suspiciously like a snort came from Derek’s side of the room. With a frown, Stiles turned his head to peer over at the werewolf and narrowed the eye not obscured by the icepack.

     “What?” he demanded.

     “Nothing,” answered Derek, “except that all this sounds suspiciously like self-pity.” Appearing to have settled into the conversation more comfortably, he leaned back in his chair and draped an arm over the back. Eyes glittering with mirth, he crossed his ankle over his knee. “Seriously, I think I can hear the world’s smallest violin playing.” Great, so Derek had just come over here to make fun of Stiles for feeling down on his luck. What else was new?

     “That’s easy for you to say,” countered Stiles, “when you look like you do.”

     Startlingly, Derek laughed. Actually _laughed_. The sight was almost enough to distract Stiles from the fact that Derek was probably mocking him again. “Stiles, the fact that you’re single has nothing to do with what you look like.”

     That sounded an awful lot like a backhanded compliment or, knowing Derek, an outright insult Stiles just hadn’t interpreted yet. He didn’t need some smug-faced werewolf with the face and body of an Adonis to tell him that, in addition to being epically plain, Stiles was also too pale, too skinny, too uncoordinated, too geeky, and too much of a spaz to be attractive to members of _either_ sex. It was possible Stiles wore his inferiority complex on his sleeve a little bit. Nevertheless he asked, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

     Shrugging, Derek tapped his fingers against the back of the chair. For a moment he was silent and simply looked at Stiles with an unreadable expression on his face. “You really want to know what I think? Because I’m pretty sure you’re just going to bite my head off for it.”

     Coming from the werewolf in the room, that was rich. “Yeah, probably,” Stiles agreed, “but tell me anyway.” To show that Derek had his full attention, he sat up again. “Obviously you’re committed to having a Dr. Phil moment here, so you might as well go all in.”

     “Don’t remind me.”

     “Spit it out, dude!”

     Derek held up his hands in a placating gesture. “Okay, well, the way I see it, if you really wanted to be dating someone, you would be. Throwing away ten years of your life on someone totally unattainable is just another way of lying to yourself that a relationship is what you really want. Or that you’re ready for one.”

     Stiles blinked. Let the words sink in. Try as he might, he couldn’t think of a single thing to contradict what Derek was telling him. In his more brutally honest moods, Stiles had often been forced to admit to himself he had no plan beyond getting Lydia to reciprocate his feelings. When he tried to think of what came after, he’d never managed to picture anything specific. It was like a white space in his mind with a box that read INSERT RELATIONSHIP HERE. He’d never even jerked off all that much to the thought of having sex with her, but to say she didn’t appear sometimes in his fantasies would be a lie. Then again, Stiles sometimes fantasized about linoleum.

     His mouth opened but nothing came out at first. Then he slowly said, “That… might actually be the most insightful thing you’ve ever said.”

     “Thanks,” Derek answered with a roll of his eyes. Sitting up in the chair, he rubbed his palms on his thighs. Now that he’d dropped his major bombshell of the evening, Derek looked like he desperately wanted to excuse himself from the conversation. He wasn’t often given to squirming, but as someone who could qualify for the fidgeting Olympics when he went off his meds, and sometimes even then, Stiles recognized the look of a man itching to peace the fuck out.

     “This is killing you right now, isn’t it?” he asked, unable to hide his grin. Hell, Derek probably showed up here thinking Stiles was feeling a bit under the weather and nothing more, not that he’d have to play armchair psychiatrist at a moment’s notice.

     “You have no idea.”

     Like he understood that Stiles was giving him an opening to take off, the corner of Derek’s mouth twitched as the older man stood up and moved towards the window. He’d not be leaving through the front door, then. Typical. However, Derek paused with one leg over the sill and turned to look back at Stiles.

     “I’m serious though, Stiles,” he said with a sincerity Stiles was surprised to hear. “This isn’t worth beating yourself up over. You’re young and there’re plenty of opportunities still ahead of you, so enjoy it as it comes. But if a relationship is what you want, or even just to test the waters, no one’s going to make it happen for you. I’m surprised you haven’t learned that lesson by now, considering all the years you let pass without ever growing the balls to ask Lydia out.”

     How the hell would Derek react if Stiles were to tell him he’d never grown the balls to ask Derek out, either? The thought made Stiles want to smile to himself, but it came out like more of a grimace. Not going there. “Tell me about it,” he muttered instead.

     “You’re not still interested in her, are you?” asked Derek. For a second he looked like he wanted to climb back into Stiles’s room, eyes intent and curious, but instead he remained straddling the windowsill, half prepared to leave and half poised to listen to what Stiles had to say in response.

     “I—no,” Stiles answered. “Haven’t been for a while, or at least not since she and Jackson got back together. Maybe even before that. It’s pretty clear they’re gonna be together forever. But it seemed easier to hang on to the dream than let it go, even if I knew it would never happen.” He shrugged slowly, trying to verbalize something he’d neither admitted out loud nor properly clarified for himself. “Telling myself I was still in love with Lydia was like the last remaining constant in my life, you know?” A security blanket when everything else was shifting around him: his friendships, his future, his worldview, his relationship with his father, his sense of self. His sexuality.

     “What’s your excuse, then?” Stiles asked, knowing it was pure deflection and not caring.

     “I don’t need an excuse. I’m the first one to admit I have no motivation to start looking for a relationship with someone who’d just annoy me in the end anyway.” Derek shook his head and gave a rueful laugh, then climbed the rest of the way out the window. “All in all, it’s too much trouble.”

     At that, Stiles wrinkled his nose. He knew Derek had a point there, since his situation wasn’t much different from a single parent trying to protect his kids from a parade of potential stepmothers (or fathers—considering what they’d just discussed, Stiles was startled to realize he had no idea where Derek fell on the Kinsey scale) and instability. You’d think a group of teenagers should better understand the concept of one-night stands and relationships that just don’t work out, especially since Derek, at twenty-four, was kind of at the right age to be sowing his wild oats, but Stiles didn’t need to be reminded how territorial the pack could get about their Alpha. All Derek needed to have a full uproar on his hands was to come home smelling like a stranger. Erica in particular would lose her shit.

     “Way to take one for the team, man,” Stiles said gamely, and in a strange way he meant it. “Out of everyone, you’re the guy who should have his dance card completely full. I hope the pack realizes you’re embracing celibacy for them.”

     Even backlit by the late-afternoon sun, Derek’s grin was wide, bright, and achingly mischievous. There was no denying Derek had a great smile, but it was an unusual enough sight that it always made Stiles feel like he was witnessing a freak appearance of Halley’s Comet hundreds of years ahead of schedule.

     “Who said anything about celibacy?” Derek shot back. “You don’t get to my age without learning a thing or two about how to bury a scent.”

     Stiles had no idea what to say to that, as was probably evidenced by his mouth falling open and no sound coming out, but the point turned out to be moot; Derek simply turned and disappeared off the roof, and a few moments later Stiles heard the revving of the Camaro’s engine.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles comes to Derek with what he thinks is a perfectly reasonable - and sane, let's not forget sane - request.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, a million and one thanks to akadougal and blue_fjords for the excellent betas and the intensive hand holding. This chapter rated PG-13. (Please see Chapter 1 for full summary and notes.)

     Derek’s words lodged in Stiles’s head and remained stuck there for a few days following their conversation. He had to admit he felt a bit better about the state of his love life after that, felt less like going on a punching spree every time he saw his friends hugging, holding hands, kissing, or generally being disgusting around him. While it didn’t make him any less single or any less of a virgin, Stiles found it helped to remind himself, as Derek had, that the reasons for that had a lot more to do with Stiles’s choices than it did a conspiracy the universe had plotted to keep him forever alone.

     Framed that way, the solution was pretty simple: Stiles just had to start making better choices. He had to take _action_. As he returned home from school the following Thursday, making his apologies to Scott and Allison about going for bubble tea, Stiles decided that was just what he would do. First fixing himself a snack, he then changed into his gym shorts, an old T-shirt, and laced up his running shoes. With his jogging playlist cued up on his phone, he took off down the street from his house and headed in the direction of Derek’s house.

     Although his high school athletic career had been nearly over by the time Stiles figured out the lacrosse thing might not happen, at the beginning of senior year he’d defected to a sport running for his life had taught him he was pretty good at: Track and Field. Despite the lacrosse-blindness that seemed to inflict the majority of students at Beacon Hills High, they _did_ actually have other sports teams, some of whom even performed admirably at meets in the district and beyond. The Track team had ranked nationally in the past and continued to do well despite the general lack of interest from the student body. Maybe that was why Stiles was so readily welcomed aboard, but he was a pretty good runner and excelled in the 100- and 200-meter dash. Excelled so much, in fact, that the Track coach elected him team captain to fill the existing vacancy after Stiles started pulling in impressive rankings at team meets.

     He may not have been Beacon Hill’s answer to Usain Bolt, but as Stiles’s guidance counselor had pointed out, “Team Captain” looked great on college and scholarship applications. Berkeley didn’t have to know no one else was up for the title.

     Although Stiles typically lacked the focus to be much of a long-distance runner, it was still an important part of his training and feasible if he took his medication. The distance from his house to Derek’s was about five miles, enough for a good workout, and if he ran through the woods his legs would be suitably aching afterwards. Of course, Derek would probably lecture him for running through the forest by himself, but Sourwolf needed to loosen up like whoa as far as Stiles was concerned.

     The afternoon was just cool and overcast enough to make for perfect running weather, but Stiles had still soaked his shirt through by the time he reached the Hale residence. Unsurprisingly, Derek was waiting for him on the front porch, seated on the step and whittling away at a piece of wood that had already started to resemble—what else?—a wolf. Just like Stiles and running, woodworking was one of the unexpected habits Derek had picked up since settling into a more comfortable routine with his pack. He had created a small workshop for himself out behind the house and occasionally took custom furniture orders from people in town. Stiles liked to believe Derek carved everything with his claws, and that the tools and the knife he was currently using were just for show.

     “I could hear _and_ smell you coming,” Derek said in greeting, making a face at the state of Stiles’s T-shirt. “Did you run all the way here from home?”

     Stiles nodded and considered how, if he were a braver (read: more ripped) man, he would simply take off the T-shirt and fling the offending garment at Derek’s head. But he wasn’t, so he didn’t, though he did lift the hem so he could wipe the sweat from his face. Since both he and the shirt were pretty wet, it did little but smear the moisture around and make him grimace when he caught a whiff of his own stench. For a moment he was very glad not to have werewolf senses.

     Still had a mouth on him, though. “Could probably outpace you these days, man,” Stiles replied with the cockiest smile he could muster, which widened considerably when Derek lifted his eyebrows and grinned back in pure challenge.

     “We’ll have to test that theory someday,” he countered with a dangerous sparkle in his eye. Maybe Stiles fit in with the pack better than he knew, because that glimmer of daring made him want to growl. Smirking, Derek blew off some of the wood shavings from his carving-in-progress, then set it down on the top porch step before he got to his feet and started to go inside the house. Over his shoulder he said, “Come inside and have something to drink. You must be thirsty.”

     The house echoed with quiet when Stiles stepped past the threshold and paused to kick off his running shoes. Normally it was impossible to catch Derek’s home devoid of life other than Derek himself, and Stiles was both relieved by the privacy and startled by how eerie it felt. He’d often wondered how miserable it must have been when Derek was alone and rattling around this big house by himself, and with a shudder Stiles decided it was no wonder Derek had been so uncouth and touchy when they’d first met. The contrast from then to now was pretty startling, and put more than a few things into perspective. Stiles would’ve been desperate to surround himself with anyone who could pass as pack too.

     Shaking off the feeling of melancholy that threatened to bring down his runner’s high, Stiles followed Derek into the kitchen and found a bottle of water already open and waiting for him on the island counter. He loved Derek’s kitchen more than any other room in the house—it was homey and bright, a gathering place, everything a kitchen should be. Stiles liked to think of it as partially his, since he did so much cooking in it when the whole pack got together, and even now he easily spotted his cookbooks carefully tucked away into their very own nook. He’d once commented on how much his mother would’ve loved a kitchen like this, and Derek had just smiled. “That’s the whole point,” he explained. “My mom used to love it in here too.” Derek had remodeled it as closely after his childhood memories of the room as he could get it, doing most of the work and finishing touches himself. 

     “Where is everyone?” asked Stiles once he’d all but pounced on the bottle of water, drinking half of it in one go. He noticed Derek was drinking a Coke, and momentarily considered asking for one before dismissing the thought. With the endorphins still pumping through his blood from the run, he felt jittery enough already. Stiles preferred to remain as clearheaded as possible this afternoon.

     “Out,” Derek replied simply, shrugging. “Frolicking in the sunshine, as I think you put it. You can probably guess who they’re all with.”

     “Right. Must be a day that ends in ‘day’.” The conversation was already starting to slide into bitter territory, at least for Stiles, and that wasn’t what he’d come here for at all. “Well, who cares? You and I don’t need ’em, right?”

     Derek paused with his beer halfway to his mouth. “Need them for what?”

     “Oh, you know… life.” Plastering a bright smile on his face that immediately made Derek’s expression turn suspicious, Stiles attempted to tone it down a bit by coughing into his hand. “Uh, well… I actually needed to talk to you about something anyway, so it’s just as well the whole gang isn’t present.”

     “Sounds serious.”

     “It’s not really.”

     The intensity of Derek’s gaze was beginning to unnerve Stiles a bit, and he knew that if he got any more unsettled, he’d start to lose his backbone. Goddamn Derek and his blistering stare! Maybe it was time for some post-run stretching. Stiles dropped down to the floor and started to do that, sticking out one leg so he could wrap his hands around his ankle and really work at those hamstrings and calves.

     By the time Derek rounded the kitchen island to glare at Stiles, he already looked like he expected Stiles to deliver some piece of unexpected and very bad news. It went to show what Derek knew, because Stiles would’ve happily told him he’d accidentally set the Camaro on fire compared to how heavily the impending request sat in his gut.

     “Stiles.”

     “Yeah, yeah, just a second,” Stiles rushed out with a grunt. “Wouldn’t want to get a cramp.” He yelped in surprise as Derek hauled him upright by the back of his T-shirt. While Derek didn’t slam him up against the counter, Stiles could tell from his eyebrows alone that it was a close thing.

     He did, however, point an accusing finger in Stiles’s face. “You know I hate it when you start acting all sketchy like this,” Derek reminded him, like Stiles hadn’t learned everything he knew about evasiveness from him. “It isn’t polite to say we have to talk and then leave me hanging. So spit it out.”

     Stiles went for his best look of innocence. “It’s nothing bad.”

     Unsurprisingly, this didn’t seem to reassure Derek much, if at all. “Your definition of bad and my definition of bad are very different, Stiles. Tell me what. You. Did.”

     “Jesus, nothing! I haven’t done anything!” 

     Slapping his hands away, Stiles quickly moved to put the island back between himself and Derek. Indignant, he smoothed out the rumpled fabric of his T-shirt and tried not to make it obvious how badly he wanted to avoid eye contact right now. That would only convince Derek even more that the next words out of Stiles’s mouth would be a bombshell.

     He wouldn’t be wrong.

     “I just came here to say that I’ve been thinking a lot about the conversation we had last week,” Stiles started to explain. “You raised a lot of really great points about how I haven’t been putting myself out there enough and how I should take control of my own sexuality and stuff.”

     Adorably, which Stiles was pretty sure was an inappropriate thing to think given the situation, Derek wrinkled his nose. “That’s not really what I—”

     Stiles chose to ignore him. “It gave me some ideas. Well, just one. But a really good one!”

     “Uh-oh.”

     The snort that came out of Stiles’s nose wasn’t anywhere near as dignified as he probably thought. “Don’t be like that!” he protested, waving his hands. Actually, he was a bit hurt by Derek’s lack of faith in him. “In fact, I have you to thank for it.”

     Derek cast his eyes heavenward. Considering how badly south things were about to go in T-minus five seconds, Stiles took that as a sign of encouragement, even when Derek said, “Why doesn’t that make me feel better? Actually, I think it just worries me more.”

     “Worry? Why worry? Since when are my ideas bad?”

     There was an impolite grunt. “Stiles, your version of a good idea is trying to get Jackson to dress up in drag every Friday.”

     “Excuse me, but Jackson is a beautiful man. I only shudder to think how awesome he’d look as a chick.” That, at least, was no lie. If Stiles figured he was maybe 60/40 on the whole gay-VS-straight issue, Jackson dressed up like a woman might be exactly his type, were Jackson less of an asshole. Mind you, Lydia would probably kill Stiles if he tried anything.

     With a roll of his eyes, Derek folded his arms across his chest and waited. It was the waiting that let Stiles know he was in trouble—an impatient Derek would snarl and huff and threaten pain, then get restless and too irritated to cope until he simply walked away and didn’t come back for a while. Anyone who didn’t know Derek well would respond with fear to those outward displays of aggression, but Stiles did know Derek well, and knew a calm Derek was a far more effective form of psychological torture, and a far scarier one at that.

     Waiting, thought Stiles, was the Derek Hale equivalent of saying “I’m disappointed and I need you to restore my faith in you” when he was unhappy or “I’ve got your back no matter what” when he didn’t want Stiles to feel hurt or afraid; it was his way of asserting dominance over the wolf’s baser instinct to have it out until someone bled. Stiles kind of lived for how Derek insisted on treating him like an adult these days, maybe even an equal, and for Stiles to back down from a confrontation where Derek was willing to meet him halfway, no matter how awkward or painful the situation, would be to tell him that Stiles wasn’t worthy. He might not want to think about why that was, but Stiles knew the feeling jammed him up inside, trapped him and flayed him open in ways he couldn’t put a name to.

     Fuck.

     “Okay, it’s like,” he began. Stopped. Tried again with a huff and more assertive hand gestures. “You know how I feel about the whole virginity thing, and you were right that I’m never gonna let myself find someone to be with until I feel ready. So I’ve decided what I needed to feel ready is to just… not be a virgin anymore. I want to leave Beacon Hills thinking about all the things I can do to make another person happy instead of all the ways I’ll probably let them down.”

     It sounded good as Stiles was saying it, but he realized from the odd look on Derek’s face that he probably wasn’t being very clear. Forget teaching poetry to fish—werewolves were even more hopeless.

     “Confidence, dude, I need confidence. And knowledge. Knowledge is power. So this is me trying to grab the bull by the horns.” After a beat he added, “Or the wolf by the tail, as it were.”

     Derek blinked and after a very, very long pause, said, “I don’t think I understand,” in the tone of voice that implied he totally did and totally wished he didn’t.

     Whatever, Stiles could lead him down the garden path if Derek wanted to be obtuse. It’s not like this conversation could get any more uncomfortable. He planted his hands on his hips and met Derek’s alarmed gaze. “I want you to be the one to take my V-card.”

     The proverbial pin could’ve dropped in the ensuing silence.

     Then: “Your V-card.” The words sounded even more foreign coming out of Derek’s mouth. Not for the first time, it put Stiles at something of a disadvantage that Derek rarely had more than one facial expression, and the tone of his voice gave nothing away other than that it was eerily flat. “You want me to take your virginity.”

     “Um.” Stiles was beginning to regret this so much that it made his stomach hurt. Where was that giant CTRL+Z button when you needed it? “Yeah, basically.”

     Derek did nothing—seriously nothing, the guy had gone still as a statue—for a full minute except stare at Stiles, even seeming to blink less than usual. Then his expression changed, eyes going slightly panicked, and he looked more lost than Stiles could ever remember having seen him. In a beseeching gesture, Derek spread his hands out before him. “I… Stiles, I don’t know what to say. I can’t even think of anything beyond ‘I don’t know what to say.’”

      Stiles swallowed so loudly that his throat clicked. “Are you pissed?”

     Brow furrowed, Derek appeared to think for a moment before he shook his head. “I… don’t think so?”

     “Well, that’s something I guess.” Logically, Stiles knew he’d been breathing this whole time, but when he forced out a breath hard enough to puff his cheeks out, it felt like he’d been holding all that air in his chest for hours. 

     “I need a drink.” Tellingly, Derek waffled a moment on the spot and then walked to the fridge to pull out a couple beers. His movements looked unfocused and jerky, even to Stiles. “Want one?” he asked in a distracted voice.

     “Uh… no, thanks.” What the hell was with all these supposed adults offering him alcohol lately? And why did Derek even keep beer in the fridge? He couldn’t get drunk. Stiles frowned as he watched Derek crack the top off one like nothing—probably wasn’t even a screw top—and chug half the bottle without pausing for breath.

     Derek set it down on the countertop with slightly too much force, the sudden noise making Stiles jump. “I think I’m too shocked to be angry,” he continued like Stiles hadn’t said anything. He was talking pretty resolutely at the bottle and not at Stiles, not that Stiles minded. Sometimes he had pretty intense conversations with inanimate objects he labeled with “Scott” or “Lydia” or even “Derek.” Totally normal behavior. “I’m flattered, I guess? I realize this is a big deal for you. But I can’t help but wonder if you’ve thought this through. At all. Because you’re here in my kitchen talking to me about this instead of, I don’t know… Lydia. Erica. Even that friend of Jackson’s, the gay one. Someone your own age.”

     Stiles could appreciate that this was probably as close to seeing Derek freak out as he was likely ever to get, but he was going to have to nip this in the bud right now. “Lydia or Erica, seriously?” He threw his hands up in frustration. “How long d’you think it’d take for their _werewolf boyfriends_ to rip me to shreds if I ever asked them something like that? Also, _Erica_? Way to throw me to the wolves, Derek. Literally. And ‘that gay friend of Jackson’s’ name is Danny, by the way.”

     “Jesus, Stiles, I don’t know!” Angry eyes finally lifted from their determined study of the marble countertop to glare up at Stiles. From the way Derek’s fingers tightened around his beer bottle, he was a little surprised the glass didn’t shatter. “Cut me some slack here, okay? I’m not trying to start an argument. I expected you to come in here and tell me you’d accidentally keyed the Camaro or something, not proposition me for sex!”

     The blood drained from Stiles’s face and he took a step back, knowing even he wasn’t melodramatic enough to let his hands fly up to cover his mouth the way they kind of wanted to. Only Lydia could get away with something that dramatic. “Oh my God, is that what just happened? Did I just _Indecent Proposal_ you?”

     A muscle twitched in Derek’s temple. “Have you actually even seen that movie? Because unless the next thing out of your mouth is to offer me a million dollars, that’s not what’s happening here.”

     “I would totes offer you a million dollars in exchange for popping my cherry if I could, bro, but Berkeley don’t come cheap.” The words spilled out before Stiles could hold them back, and Derek’s horrified expression, while hilarious, made Stiles cringe both inwardly and out.

     “I can’t believe this conversation is actually happening in real life,” Derek muttered, eyes lifted to the ceiling. 

     “Okay, so maybe I can’t think of a more appropriate movie reference at the moment, but you’re obviously feeling kind of violated, right? Like my asking has made you feel dirty?” Stiles wrung his hands and then blindly started casting about for a stool. When he found it, he pulled it out from behind the island with a loud shriek of metal across the kitchen tiles and sat down heavily, propping his elbows up on the counter so he could bury his head in his hands. Derek feeling scandalized had definitely not been part of his calculations. “Do you, like… not swing that way? I honestly have never been able to figure that out about you, but if you aren’t down with the dude-love, I totally get it.”

     “Stiles, I’m not feeling violated and I have nothing against hooking up with a guy,” Derek told him with more patience than Stiles thought he deserved. “I’m just trying to wrap my head around the fact that, of all the people you know, _I’m_ the guy you felt was the best one to come to with this. I’m your _Alpha_.”

     Finally, Stiles felt like they were talking the same language. Sure, that language was complete nonsense, but at least they were both on the same page in not understanding each other. Plus that whole thing about Derek hooking up with guys really, _really_ warranted further exploration. But that so wasn’t the point here, was it? He tried to focus.

     “Exactly—you’re the Alpha. It’s your job to take care of the pack. So maybe this is stretching the definition a little bit, but since when did we start following rules?” That didn’t get much of a rise, so Stiles continued, “Besides, who the hell else would you expect me to ask? And I mean realistically, none of that ‘ask Lydia’ bullshit. I’m not exactly running a long list of options of people who want to get horizontal with me.”

     “Be that as it may, you’re still young, you’re—”

     “—of the legal age of consent in the state of California.” God, this was going to get tedious real fast, Stiles could tell.

     Derek glared at him again. Folded his arms. There could hardly be a more blatant example of a man digging his heels in. Sometimes Derek was a hell of a lot more like a stubborn bull than a wolf. “Then at the very least, this is something you should be holding on to until you find someone you care about properly, and who cares about you.”

     The imaginary record player in Stiles’s head screeched to a stop. To his credit, Derek, too, seemed to realize the error of his words, and stared at Stiles with his eyes looking startled and hurt. Like Stiles was the one who’d just stuck a knife up under his ribs. 

     Derek exhaled noisily. “Okay, that’s not—”

     Stiles was suddenly really, _really_ freaking done with this conversation. And anyway, he didn’t know if he could say much more around the absence of air in his lungs. “I’m going to go grab a shower,” he choked out with as much dignity as possible. “Hold that thought?”

     If Derek tried to respond, Stiles didn’t notice as he beelined it from the kitchen upstairs as quickly as possible. Three years of dealing with bloodied, stained, or otherwise shredded clothes had trained him to start keeping an extra few shirts and pairs of jeans at Derek’s house; he figured being drenched in sweat from his run and now crippling embarrassment was as good a reason to delve into his emergency wardrobe as any. For the next ten minutes, Stiles promised himself, he was going to think about a hot shower and the nice, clean clothes that were waiting for him, and nothing else.

     Each of the wolves—with the exception of Scott and Jackson, who still lived at home—had their own room in the house, but the spare bedroom one was Stiles’s by kind of an unspoken treaty. Occasionally someone else used it as a place to crash if necessary, but Stiles spent more time at Derek’s than anyone who didn’t live there, and so this space was his. No one challenged it, least of all Derek, who in his own way had been the one to suggest it. He’d simply started dumping all of Stiles’s belongings that he left behind at the house in this room, and to make it livable as well eventually moved furniture in he’d crafted himself in the shed out back.

     Stiles headed there now, still thinking hard about the en suite bathroom and awesome water pressure and shampoo that smelled like rosemary and mint. But disappointment snapped at him like a whip when the room failed to transform itself into the safe haven he’d been hoping for. Yes, it had a door that he could lock behind him, but it was difficult to look around and not see traces of Derek everywhere. Hell, the awfulness from the kitchen had practically picked up its skirts and chased Stiles up the stairs to keep him company.

     Choking back a sigh of frustration and the uncomfortable sinking feeling that he might have just irreparably fucked something up between himself and Derek, Stiles stripped off his clothing and went to start the water running instead. Just as he knew it would, the spray felt great against his tired muscles when he stepped into the shower. Stiles hoped it would also hide the angry scream he belted out into the washcloth, the fists he beat once against the tiled wall and then let drop to his sides, useless. 

     When he finished washing himself—there was no way Stiles could even think about having a quick session with his hand right now—he stepped out of the shower and forewent drying off completely in favour of wrapping one of Derek’s obnoxiously huge towels around his waist. Derek could kiss his pasty white ass if he thought Stiles gave a shit about tracking water across the floor as he crossed back into the bedroom.

     “Oh my—God!” Stiles slapped a palm to his forehead and remembered at the last second to hold on to his towel when he walked out of the bathroom. He nearly collided with Derek, who was standing right outside the door. “What are you doing in here?”

     Derek cocked an eyebrow. “It’s my house.”

     “Right, my bad. Here I thought the days of you watching my every move were over. But just FYI, creeping around outside while somebody showers is a new low, even for you.” Stiles’s surprise and embarrassment over being caught half-naked and dripping wet loosened his tongue even more than usual. “So did you want something, or did you come to scope out the goods before you make your decision?”

     Derek grunted. “Yes, now take off the towel.” Despite having asked for that, Stiles was momentarily too stunned by the answer to come up with a rejoinder of his own, but then Derek added, deadpan, “Just joking.”

     Scowling, Stiles shoved his way past Derek’s body where it partially blocked his path and tossed his discarded clothing onto the bed, next to the clean jeans and hoodie he’d pulled from the spare drawer earlier. Unable to think of anything more demoralizing than standing around with his skinny chest on display to Derek “Eight Pack” Hale, Stiles quickly grabbed the sweatshirt and put it on over the towel, zipping it up until the tiny metal teeth bit at his chin. But a second later he was too hot again, body temperature still a touch high from the shower, and Stiles wrestled the offending garment off with an irritated string of muttering.

     “Normally I’d want to reward you for making a joke with a doggie treat and a scratch behind the ears, but even I didn’t find that funny,” he retorted, flinging the hoodie to the bed. 

     The comment only made Derek frown more, like he knew Stiles was lashing out with menace rather than fondness. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded,” Derek said after a moment, and Stiles couldn’t even pretend they didn’t both know which statement Derek was referring to.

     Who was he kidding? Stiles could totally pretend. Usually passive aggressiveness was too, well, _passive_ for his liking, but every so often he felt like he could indulge. “Didn’t mean what the way it sounded?” he asked with forced nonchalance, propping his hands on his hips.

     “That I don’t care about you,” answered Derek without hesitation. He rolled his eyes but seemed willing to play along. “Don’t be stupid—you know I was talking about romantic relationships. But if you took it to mean that you don’t have value in my life, I’m sorry.”

     That was quite possibly the easiest and most sincere apology Stiles had ever heard Derek utter—come to think of it, he couldn’t even remember Derek apologizing to anyone within earshot before—and it caught him off guard a little bit. But did it absolve Derek to him? Not entirely. Stiles was almost more annoyed with himself that he couldn’t let things be simple and accept the fucking olive branch. 

     “I have _value in your life_ ,” he repeated, folding his arms. Not only did he think it looked stern when he did that, but it helped disguise the reflexive shiver that ran through him. Derek was absolutely right that Stiles was being more obtuse than usual about this, but Stiles couldn’t change the fact that Derek’s words had stung and had yet to stop hurting. Right now that was enough to make Stiles not care how needy he was acting. “You can’t even talk to me about this like a human being, can you? Oh, I forgot—you aren’t one.”

     “Don’t be a dick,” Derek shot back. “How else do you want me to put it? Okay, fine—you mean a lot to me, Stiles. Your friendship is one of the most important relationships I have.” Realizing how much like sarcasm that sounded, Derek cursed under his breath and uncurled his fingers from the fists he was making. “I shouldn’t have to defend myself to you about this. You know there are things that—” He broke off on a sharp inhale, stared down fixedly at the floor for a beat before lifting his eyes again, frustration and hurt giving him a wild look. “Stuff I haven’t told anyone else. So whatever else you took what I said to mean, you’re wrong.”

     Only Derek could make an admission like that sound so _angry_ , but fuck it all if Stiles wasn’t about to cry anyway. An overwhelming sense of loneliness hit him like a sucker punch. He had no idea where the tears came from but could feel them sharp as pinpricks at the corner of his eyes. Giving up on the pretense of composure entirely, Stiles went to sit on the bed and dug his fingers into the mattress as hard as he could. It was the old twin from his bedroom at home, traded in for a queen much more suited to his tendency to starfish out at night, and Stiles’s dad had reluctantly agreed to let the bedframe and mattress migrate to Derek’s after they renovated the Hale estate. That helped a bit, having some familiarity here from his other life.

     They were both silent for a really long time.

     “If what you say is true, then I don’t see the problem,” Stiles eventually burst out, frustration cracking his voice. “I’m not asking you to put a ring on it, man. We’d still be friends.” He shook his head and clenched his fists a little harder. “I don’t see the problem,” he said again.

     “No, you wouldn’t, would you?”

     Well that wasn’t condescending as fuck or anything. Stiles, offended, opened his mouth to tell Derek off, only to close it again just as fast because he couldn’t really argue with the facts. Derek had him there. But Stiles didn’t feel like being BFFs with calm and rational right now. “Then break it down for me,” he suggested. “Explain to me how it is.” 

     A muscle ticked furiously in Derek’s jaw as he stared back, letting another few moments pass. Then he sighed and his shoulders visibly slumped, and a second later he crossed the room to sit beside Stiles on the bed, landing heavily on the mattress. The way their arms brushed together so easily, bodies comfortable in each other’s personal space even with tension thick in the room, made the hairs on Stiles’s arms stand up. Something in his chest fluttered and he shivered, but then that was nothing unusual, was it? 

     As if he heard the quiet stutter of Stiles’s heartbeat, Derek tilted his head slightly and cast him an inscrutable sidelong glance that Stiles met openly, wishing Derek would just _look at him_ and give him a hint what was going through his mind—some inkling or clue, even the faintest fucking suggestion Stiles hadn’t epically screwed up. Derek’s body language wasn’t closed off or threatening but he wasn’t exactly laying himself bare either, and Stiles could feel the stiffness of his posture, muscles coiled for fight or flight. These mixed fucking signals were doing his head in worse than the time he escorted Lydia to prom and had the pleasure of watching her run hot and cold all evening. 

     He felt like he might die from the suspense if he didn’t do something. Biting his lip, Stiles tentatively reached out and slid his fingers over Derek’s denim-covered knee, watching the other man for a reaction, negative or otherwise. There was a quiet hitch of breath and a pair of wide green eyes turned on Stiles, scanning his face with intent, but no response beyond that. Stiles took that as a kind of permission to continue and, holding Derek’s gaze from beneath his eyelashes, moved his hand out farther until his sweat-dampened palm covered Derek’s kneecap completely. It was the bravest, most stupid thing he’d ever done, the kind of advance that couldn’t be laughed off or downplayed as a joke. The lack of ambiguity was almost freeing. A sigh shuddered out of him when Stiles relaxed his arm and didn’t so much as dare twitch another muscle, afraid doing so would shatter the moment. 

     Derek was still watching him with that startled expression, looking for a moment as unguarded as Stiles had ever seen him. Werewolf hearing wasn’t necessary to pick up how his breath came slightly faster, no enhanced vision needed to catch the blackness of his pupils blown wide as they stared at each other. For all intents and purposes, Derek looked like someone had just told him everything he knew was a lie, Stiles thought. And he was the one who’d done that.

     “Der,” he started, voice cracking, and when Derek’s lips parted a tiny bit in anticipation, Stiles absolutely couldn’t take it anymore. His fingers tightened their grip and Stiles shut his eyes, leaning in to close the distance until his lips touched what could’ve only been Derek’s mouth.

     At first all he could concentrate on was Derek’s warmth and scratchy stubble and the slight lingering taste of beer on his breath, followed by a delirious internal litany of _Holy shit I’m kissing Derek Hale I’m kissing him I’m kissing him I kissed him holy shit_. It was kind of weird and close-mouthed, though, because Derek hadn’t moved an inch, and Stiles realized he ought to think about doing something else. He started to tilt his head, since that’s always how kisses seemed to go in the movies and on TV, but suddenly there were hands against his shoulders pushing him back, not just firmly, but hard enough to make Stiles gasp and clutch at the duvet to regain his balance. The mattress gave a jolt. Stiles’s eyes flew open and he immediately saw Derek had pushed himself off the bed and was standing with one fist clenched against the wall, his back to Stiles. His shoulders heaved like Derek was crying, but Stiles also didn’t miss the way every muscle and tendon was tightly corded in Derek’s exposed forearms.

     That… wasn’t a good sign. Stiles scrabbled to his feet with a choked-off “Dude, what—?” but only made it a few feet before Derek’s voice stopped him dead.

     “You need to leave,” he barked out, and Stiles recoiled from the hardness of his tone. 

     It felt like a bucket of cold water over his head and slap to the face at the same time. He hesitated, unsure what’d just happened, and apparently that moment’s pause wasn’t fast enough for Derek, who bit off a curse under his breath and whirled around to make for the door.

     “Never mind,” he said, even though Stiles hadn’t moved or spoken. “I’m going.” The whole house seemed to rattle with the force of the door slamming after him.

     To say Stiles was unable to process what’d just happened was an understatement. Yeah, he’d kissed Derek, and a little while before that he’d asked the guy to take his virginity under possibly the least romantic conditions ever, but for a while there Stiles had honestly thought they might be getting somewhere. Reluctance, he’d pretty much counted on. But being forcibly pushed away like Derek couldn’t stand the sight of him? No, somehow Stiles had failed to factor in that possibility, even despite their history. Turned out he’d been wrong to assume they were past all that.

     Stiles flopped back down on the bed and rubbed a hand over his forehead, frowning up at the ceiling. “Well, that went awesome,” he said out loud, and for once felt glad there was no one to offer a clever reply, not even himself.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek gives Stiles his answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to akadougal, blue_fjords, and RC_McLachlan for their invaluable feedback and betas on this chapter!

     Desire was a viper.

     Derek’s experience with both serpents and lust was admittedly limited, but he knew enough to know nothing good could come of trusting either one. For starters, there wasn’t an animal alive stupid enough to let down their guard around a snake, a fact that had far more to do with natural instinct than biblical myth, but Derek had long considered desire the more dangerous of the two by far. He had the scars to prove it. Anyone with a lick of sense ought to have known to be suspicious of a pair of curving lips or flirtatiously batted eyes, but even after thousands of years of human civilization, good old-fashioned _want_ still had the power to reduce a man to ruins. There was no point pretending Derek was an exception, because he wasn’t. He was learning how unremarkable he was in that area a little more each day.

     Desire had first entered his life with Kate Argent, bringing with it so much venom and charm a young boy could get drunk on it—and he had, drinking his fill until he found himself left with nothing but ash in his hands and a predator’s kiss burned onto his mouth. He should’ve learned his lesson then, should’ve memorized its smell so past sins could never again be repeated. Derek returned to Beacon Hills under the pretense that he wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. Maybe pride was his true folly there, because when the viper greeted him a second time, dressed now in a pair of wide Bambi eyes and a quick, clever tongue, a laughing smirk that made Derek’s fists clench in irritation even as need coiled tight in his belly, he realized he was hardly in a position to stop it from happening again. Had probably, in fact, given up the ghost long before he realized the game was over.

     He knew it was unfair to think of Stiles that way, because the kid—man, now—was a good person in nearly every way it was possible to be. He wasn’t a snake trying to lure Derek to his downfall with a pretty lie and flickering tongue. Most of the time Derek felt like the corrupting influence, like the one who should keep away so as not to despoil Stiles’s inherent decency. He tended to break the good things in his life even despite his best intentions.

     But regardless of all that, Stiles was trouble. The thought had occurred to Derek the first time he’d discovered the boy lurking about his property with Scott, had occurred to him pretty much every time he saw Stiles after that. Trouble, pure trouble, wrapped in the camouflage of a guileless teenager.

     And now trouble was asking Derek to give in to the very thing he’d spent three years—quite successfully—ignoring.

     The entire day played back to him in a blur of panic and humiliation. Running out on Stiles like that was undignified and Derek knew it, but sometimes dignity came at too high a cost, even for him. It scared him that he missed the soft pressure of Stiles’s kiss the moment he pulled away, felt its lingering warmth hours later like a phantom limb.

     Luckily Derek’s wolf didn’t really give a shit about the can of teenaged melodrama Stiles had opened up that afternoon, and for a few hours there was blissful silence as Derek gave himself to the shift and ran and ran and ran, tracking rabbits and other small animals through the forest until he grew bored of mindless pursuit and made for home. Much to Derek’s disappointment, thinking about Stiles was harder to avoid once he was back in human form and staring down the stolid darkness of his bedroom ceiling, unable to sleep.

     As he tossed and turned, trying to get comfortable with the sheets first over him and then kicked angrily off the bed, Derek was losing a battle with himself over whether or not any of this mattered. Why was he so unsettled by one boy’s dumbass virginity pact, one clumsy, desperate kiss? His desire for Stiles wasn’t a _thing_ , not like part of him wanted to make it out to be. It existed, sure, perhaps with less objectivity than how Derek could see the rest of his pack was also good looking, but he certainly didn’t go to bed at night or wake up in the morning thinking of Stiles and how incomplete his life felt without him. In that much, at least, Derek could be honest with himself. While he knew Stiles often flirted with a lingering sense of physical attraction for him, too—a persistent sweetness Derek caught in his scent when they touched, the way Stiles sometimes looked at him when his guard was down or he thought Derek didn’t notice—that was just another trifle that had long since faded into the fabric of _them_ , yet one more minor detail he forced himself to ignore for the sake of finding a balance and keeping a tenuous peace.

     That was the deal, Derek reminded himself. He wasn’t some drifter asshole anymore who lacked roots or family or a home—the last three years had brought about change, commitment, responsibility, and he was now an Alpha and a leader and a friend. His pack depended on him, and pack was everything, always. There were principles Derek felt it was important to try to live by, lines he shouldn’t cross. Stiles, or so Derek had decided early on, was one of those lines, especially since he’d gone from being a reluctant ally to a friend and confidant. Derek thought Stiles was probably his _best_ friend, in fact, but a friend nonetheless. Nothing more.

     At least that’s what he kept telling himself.

     In the privacy of his darkened bedroom, however, it was easy for Derek’s body to make a liar of him. His skin was hot to the touch even in the cool springtime air, nerves responding to the brush of cotton sheets so that he shivered and felt all the hair lift on his arms and legs. He was sensitive to everything, like a switch had been flicked internally; Derek couldn’t turn his brain off to ignore how his body seemed to grow more and more awake with each passing second. It was a restless feeling, insistent, heady like the pull of a full moon. Whatever was going on with him, Derek felt like something inside him was trying to get out, wearing his defenses down with the sureness of a soft touch rather than brute force. The more he tried to resist, the worse it got. Soon his mind didn’t so much drift to Stiles as it settled there with all the finality of a magnet discovering its true north, and Derek covered his face with his hands like that might keep the images from sneaking past his eyelids.

     At the best of times, it was hard—no, difficult—to ignore the way Stiles’s rampant oral fixation compelled him to put all manner of things in his mouth, the way he was forever biting or licking his lips like they weren’t distracting enough already. Derek had gotten good at pretending Stiles’s mouth was far less of a preoccupation than it was; even when Stiles occasionally forgot he could close his mouth instead of standing around with it open like an invitation to inappropriate thoughts. By necessity, Derek had trained himself not to dwell on it. The potential was always there, though, just beneath the surface, and ever since the kiss Derek hadn’t been able to turn his mind away from the pink fullness of Stiles’s lips, the softness of his skin, the defined dip of that infuriatingly perfect cupid’s bow.

     Once Derek weakened enough to let the first thought past his defenses, it seemed like he was open to them all. Whether Stiles knew it or not, he’d broken the dam open, and Derek strangled a groan as he let it all wash over him in a rush. It made his skin buzz and his dick stiffen, and sure Derek hadn’t lied when he told Stiles he wasn’t celibate, but damn if he hadn’t felt pummeled by a wave of desire like this anytime in recent memory. In a strange flash of lucidity, it occurred to him that maybe this was his payment for trying to pack too much away into the lockbox at the back of his mind.

      _This is wrong_ , he thought, although it was for the moment difficult to remember why that was. Derek tried to bear in mind that Stiles was a friend and comrade, not an object of lust as Derek’s body was so eager to paint him, but it was funny how easy it was, when he let himself, to linger over the broadness of Stiles’s shoulders and his narrow snake hips, the chest that was starting to fill in with maturity and Stiles’s active lifestyle, his surprisingly powerful biceps and forearms. Christ, his forearms—Derek wanted to sink his teeth into them, wanted to feel the strain of muscle and tendons against his hands as he held Stiles down and heard his frustrated little growls of protest, of longing. There was no doubt in his mind Stiles would fight him every step of the way, no matter how much he wanted what Derek _wished_ he could offer.

     Yeah, it was fucking wrong, but it didn’t diminish the ache in Derek’s belly, the need to feel Stiles under him and shiver as those long fingers dragged across his skin and dug blunt nails into his back. He knew what look he’d find in Stiles’s eyes, knew exactly how the creamy line of his neck would taste as Stiles tossed his head back in pleasure and his lips parted…

     Derek made a noise dangerously close to a whimper and flipped over onto his stomach, wanting to bury his face in his pillow and howl, but all that accomplished was to bring his erection in contact with his sheets, gave him something to rut against as he balled a fist against his mouth and bit down into a finger. He felt like he was spiraling out of control in the best possible way, and hadn’t that always been the way of it, right from the beginning? Stiles always challenged Derek’s calm, fucked with his Zen like it made him positively fucking _gleeful_ to see Derek lose his grip and finally snap. Derek wondered if it didn’t give Stiles some kind of indefinable high to push and push just to see how hard Derek might finally shove back, testing to see where the edge lay because the promise of the cut was so sweet.

     For once the threat of falling was both terrifying and a thrill, not merely something to avoid at all costs for the sake of himself and the pack—for the sake of not losing and losing and losing. For a werewolf, Derek had always liked to play it safe, never liked courting danger for all it seemed to find him; it rattled something inside of him to tentatively push those instincts down and slide his other hand around his cock, making a tight fist he could fuck into as he conjured the fantasy that it was Stiles beneath him. The image came to him so vividly that Derek gasped, his nerves on fire, and he held it there with everything he had.

     Derek shimmied up the mattress so he could press his shoulders against the headboard and go up on his knees and one elbow, giving himself some purchase and the room to run his free hand down his chest, rolling a nipple between his fingers. A jolt of pleasure produced a moan from deep in his chest as he thrust and thrust and thought how beautifully he could make Stiles scream for him, how each mewl and gasp of pleasure would tingle against Derek’s skin like a caress and a sign he’d done right. He would shatter Stiles’s world into a million bright stars and know literally no one else had ever made him feel that way before.

      Christ, Derek was already at the edge, balls drawn up tight against his body and the pressure at the bottom of his spine like a vise, constricting, tensing him towards that breaking point he could already taste. The noises coming out of his mouth were surely audible to the other wolves in the house and he didn’t give a shit, hips pumping hard, sliding his cock through his fist in a faster, more determined rhythm until his vision started to go white and sparky even behind closed eyelids. His thoughts were a blur of grasping limbs and bitten lips and brown eyes pleading at him huge and desperate, a voice he’d know anywhere crooning his name in blissed-out perfection. It was so uncontrolled that Derek felt the shift start a moment before he came, and almost didn’t pull his hand away in time to avoid his own claws. He shot anyway, come splashing hot against his belly as he muffed his shout into his pillow and tore the fabric with his fangs, feeling a complete animal but too far gone to stop himself or care.

     Hours seemed to float by before Derek came down, chest heaving and heart slamming against his breastbone like not even a hard run could achieve. There was no point trying to remember a time an orgasm had knocked him sideways like that because it didn’t exist, had never seemed possible when Derek had already felt and experienced so much. Worst of all, he was hardly more satiated or calm than before; there was still a persistent hum underneath his skin that he didn’t know how to drown out or silence. He was fucked, Derek knew that much—knew it as sure as he knew the chaos a need like this could unleash on his world, and wanted it anyway.

      _I don’t see the problem_ , Stiles had said, and Derek wanted to laugh so hard that there was an edge of the hysterical to it. Of course Stiles couldn’t see what was right in front of him, because Stiles was still a naïve, trusting boy when it came down to it; assumed, as only a teenager could, that Derek’s concerns had only to be explained and debated away, and then all would be well. To him, it seemed an impossibility that sex could be less important than saving their friendship, that one could ever affect the other. Right now he would be embarrassed and ashamed by Derek’s rejection, but it was only a matter of time before he summoned his bravery back and returned to pick at the scab, needling Derek with what seemed like perfectly logical arguments until Derek caved.

     And he _would_ cave, that was pretty much a done deal, probably since before Stiles even kissed him. Whatever box Derek had spent three years packing away into the attic of his mind was all but in Stiles’s hands now, and he was peeling away the wrapping and tape as merrily as a kid on Christmas morning, too eager to claim his prize to notice the wreckage.

     If he stopped this all right now, the biggest mess Derek would have to worry about was the one still lying sticky and warm against his stomach and the sheets beneath him, no more trouble than the time it took to wipe himself down with a warm cloth and get a good night’s sleep.

     Derek wasn’t psychic, not even close, but he didn’t have to be to know that wasn’t how this would go.

 

+

     Pride dictated that Derek should stay away from Stiles for another few days, long enough for him to achieve calm or something like it, long enough that his better judgement had some hope of reasserting itself so he wouldn’t do something rash and completely stupid. Desperation reigned, however, and dictated that Derek should show up outside of Stiles’s bedroom window the next evening after another night of screaming his orgasm into his pillow, the taste of Stiles’s name still on his lips. He wasn’t strong enough to withstand that kind of torture, it seemed, and maybe he ought to rethink whether Stiles wasn’t some kind of siren after all. It certainly wouldn’t have been the strangest thing Derek had ever dealt with in his life, and a part of him wished he could believe he didn’t know exactly what he was doing here.

     A gentle tap against the window brought Stiles’s head up from where he was studying a chemistry textbook at his desk, and Derek supposed it counted for something that there was wariness on Stiles’s face rather than eagerness. He was hurt, Derek knew, and nothing had even happened yet. If that wasn’t proof positive this was a bad idea, nothing was. Considering how things usually went—which was to say, badly—there was a good chance Derek would hurt him again before this was over, regardless of how much he didn’t want to. He was ashamed of himself that he took this as fact and knocked anyway.

     “Hey, Derek.” Stiles slid the window open and leaned against the sill, going for casual, but Derek didn’t fail to catch that Stiles was effectively blocking him outside. “What’re you doing here?”

     “I thought we should talk,” answered Derek, voice meeker than he would like. Already he was uncomfortable being here, though he had to admit it was a relief to see Stiles in the flesh after the couple of nights he’d had. There were faint shadows under his eyes and Stiles hadn’t shaved in a couple days, patchy stubble framing his mouth, but then Derek hadn’t looked much better, either, when he checked the mirror this morning.

     Stiles nodded like Derek’s suggestion was perfectly reasonable, but still didn’t step back to allow him inside. “Oh, okay. Cool,” he said. “You just thought you would avoid my calls and texts for three days first, right? To make sure I’m in an extra chatty mood?”

     Normally Derek wouldn’t have hesitated to cuff him for a taunt like that, but couldn’t summon the anger or the energy. “The other day… I didn’t know what to say,” he replied honestly. “I’m sorry. But I’d appreciate it if you’d invite me inside so we don’t have to have this conversation half on your roof.”

     “Mi casa es tu casa,” Stiles retorted, then stepped back with his arm out in as blatantly bitchy a gesture as he could manage. He could’ve just closed the window again, Derek thought idly, if he wanted to make a point. But Stiles’s impulse control was even worse than Derek’s, which was probably why he chose to lock himself in the room with the monster instead of keeping the danger outside where it belonged.

     “The other night ended badly,” Derek said without pretense once Stiles had crossed the room back to his desk. Knowing how it must look, like he was keeping close to the exit for a cleaner getaway, Derek propped a hip up against the windowsill.

     Snorting, Stiles laughed and fixed Derek with what could only be called an unimpressed look. “You think? I’ve never seen you move so fucking fast, and that includes all the times you’ve been chased, shot at, or otherwise hunted down like a dog.” He shook his head. “Who knew being kissed by me is the thing that terrifies you the most, after all this time?”

     “Being kissed by you doesn’t terrify me,” Derek answered, which was kind of a lie, so he attempted to mitigate it with a half-truth. “It was being kissed by you in combination with the conversation we’d just had. You caught me off guard.”

     The lift of Stiles’s eyebrow indicated he saw straight through this, and then he swiveled around in his desk chair so his back was completely to Derek, blocking him out. “So what’s left to talk about?” he wondered, picking up his pen to, presumably, resume studying. Except all he did was fiddle with it. “Your answer was no, let’s just leave it at that and pretend nothing happened, okay?”

     “You’re kidding yourself if you think it ever stays simple when mixing friendship and sex,” Derek blurted out. Cursing himself, he clenched his fists. Not how he wanted this conversation to happen. He hadn’t quite pieced together how it _should_ go, but was fairly certain this wasn’t it. Still, Stiles turned his head and half looked at Derek from over his shoulder, the line of his back tense and anticipatory. Derek continued. “Not that I have any amount of experience in the area either, but I do know I have a hard enough time maintaining friendships without adding an extra layer of complications into the mix. Trust just… doesn’t come easy to me the way it does for you.”

     Oh, they were into it now. Stiles angrily spun his chair back around to face him and gaped at Derek incredulously. It was clear from how the words burst out of him that he’d been counting down the minutes until he could get this off his chest. “The way it does for—Jesus, Derek, you say that like it didn’t take us the better part of three years to get to a point where we could even talk about something like this. Something that matters to me. And you think I want to just throw that away? I mean, okay, I love Scott and I trust him with my life, but you, Derek… you’re the guy I trust with everything else lately. I didn’t single you out to take my goddamned virginity just because I like how your ass looks in a pair of Levi’s, I did it because you make me feel safe.”

     By the time the final syllable died on his tongue, Stiles looked utterly spent. The tiredness in his eyes made Derek ache, and he couldn’t tell another lie. “What you’re asking me to do isn’t how you make yourself safe around me,” he said.

     “That’s bullshit.”

     “Oh yeah?” Derek barked out a laugh. “Tell me how well it ever works out when I get involved with someone.” He could tell they were both thinking pretty much the same thing when he softly added, “We both know what happened the last time I jumped into something with another person without thinking it through.”

     Derek knew it was impossible that Stiles could’ve ever forgotten a thing like that, but they needed to be a bit more practical here, and Derek needed to give Stiles—give them both—one last chance to back out of this with dignity and sanity intact. Of course Derek didn’t honestly think Stiles stood a chance of waking up crazy one day and murdering everyone they knew, but there were a lot more ways to ruin someone else’s life than burning their house down, and it didn’t even have to be on purpose.

     Unsurprisingly, Stiles looked quietly wounded at what Derek’s words implied. “I’m not Kate,” he ventured after a long pause. From his tone it was clear he knew he was treading on thin ice, but as it always went with Stiles, if it needed to be said, he was gonna say it.

     “I didn’t say you were the problem,” Derek answered.

     Stiles sighed. “Look. This conversation is officially at a standstill, even I can see that. Just tell me once and for all that you want me to go to someone else with this, and I swear I will never bring it up again. ”

     To his own dismay, Derek didn’t even have the decency to hesitate. Actually, the thought made his fists clench so hard his nails bit into his palms. “I don’t want you to go to someone else with this.”

     The stubbornness in Derek’s voice made Stiles’s mouth twitch, but the look that crossed his face next was utterly foreign, a quick, anxious fluttering of eyelashes before Stiles licked his lips and pushed himself up out of his desk chair. Shoulders hunched, he walked towards Derek slowly, hooking his thumbs into the pockets of his jeans as he approached. His body language was hesitant, shy, but Derek couldn’t deny there was a certain sexiness about it, something about Stiles’s ignorance to his own attractiveness that had always drawn Derek in.

     In fact, Derek’s mouth was dry as a bone at the sight of him. In the last year—under Lydia’s tutelage, no doubt—Stiles had taken to wearing clothes that were much more formfitting, tight jeans and shirts that stretched almost obscenely across his shoulders, showing off his body to its best advantage as he left his teenage baby fat behind. His face, too, had lost its boyish roundness with age, revealing angles and dips Derek wanted to trace with his fingers, lips, tongue. There was no questioning the person before him was a grown man, still a little unsure of himself but getting there, but suddenly everything about Stiles was dangerous and alien. It didn’t quite cancel out the nervousness belied by the tiny crease between his eyebrows and the way he nibbled his lip, but the quiet determination of Stiles’s advance put Derek’s hair on end, would’ve forced him to reverse a step had there not been a wall at his back.

     Stiles stopped about a foot in front of him and tilted his head slightly to meet Derek’s gaze. The click of Stiles’s throat around a swallow came as almost a relief, because at least Derek knew he wasn’t the only one close to losing his mind right now.

     “So I want to lose my virginity and you don’t want me to go to anyone else about it,” Stiles said cautiously. “What do I do with that, big guy? Where does that leave us?”

     It was an innocent enough question, but Derek didn’t miss the note of slyness in Stiles’s voice, the quiet challenge for him to throw down or get out. He should’ve taken his cue to get the fuck out of Dodge, but for the life of him Derek couldn’t tear himself away. The bright honey-brown shade of Stiles’s eyes had him all but mesmerized, and the hint of a smile that played on the boy’s lips made his round, impish cheekbones stand out in sharp relief to his face.

     To Derek he smelled incredible; the spicy sweetness of hormones and youth and clean sweat was a heady perfume. There was no change from how Stiles always smelled, but it was incredible how much more overwhelming his scent became when Derek wasn’t trying his best to ignore it and everything it evoked. “Addictive” was the best word for it, and Derek wanted to touch Stiles so desperately his fingers ached. He knew what a bad sign that was, but it was easier to tell himself it didn’t matter and obey the impulse instead, lifting his hand to rest tentatively against Stiles’s cheek, thumb settling in the pronounced divot beneath his bottom lip.

     The tiny smile vanished immediately and Stiles’s mouth opened on a hurt, confused sound, eyebrows shooting so quickly towards his hairline that Derek almost wanted to laugh and say _Gotcha_ , chalk another one up for The Werewolf Who Doesn’t Crack Jokes. It wasn’t a joke, though, far from it. He recognized the instant Stiles realized it, too. Oddly enough, there was a reassuring simplicity in knowing there was no turning back from this point. Letting himself move on autopilot, he reversed their positions so that Stiles was the one pressed back against the wall, butt resting on the ledge of the window frame.

     “Uh, Derek?”

     “Why don’t you tell _me_ where this leaves us,” Derek murmured, going back to Stiles’s earlier question. His gaze was intent on the place where the pads of his fingers brushed the smattering of freckles beneath Stiles’s left eye, the constellation of moles and beauty marks dark against that creamy skin. Derek could feel the tic of a muscle under his palm. To his credit, Stiles didn’t flinch away from the contact, from _Derek_ , but when did he ever? He did, however, smell nervous. Derek immediately picked up on the subtle change in Stiles’s body chemistry that meant he’d begun to sweat. “How far ahead did you think this through?”

     Although Stiles’s mouth was open, no sound emerged from it at first. Then he stuttered, “I—uh, not—not really that far past, um… asking you.” A bright flush had started to creep its way up his neck to his face, making his lips turn a deeper shade of pink. His tongue emerged to wet them, Stiles seemingly unaware of the signals he was sending out. The speed at which he could revert from confident young man to bashful teenager was almost enough to give Derek whiplash. “Are you, like… gonna kiss me right now? Is that what’s happening?”

     “You kissed me first,” Derek pointed out. He took a small step closer and was foolishly gratified when Stiles’s eyes dropped to his mouth, and he supposed they were standing close enough to be broadcasting his intent quite clearly. The tiny puff of breath Stiles released against his face made Derek’s stomach clench like a reflexive response to an electric shock. “Have you ever kissed anyone before? Aside from the other day?”

     Stiles frowned. “That doesn’t count?”

     “No.”

     “Why not?”

     Derek chuckled and rubbed his thumb affectionately along Stiles’s lower lip, then drew him nearer. “Because it doesn’t. The fact that you even asked just goes to show how much you’ve got to learn,” he said, almost marveling at the injustice of it, both awed and intimidated by the amount of trust being placed in him and how much potential there was for him to fuck it up. And Christ, Derek needed this; needed Stiles to see how badly. He could show him how good it could be. Show him everything. He could barely fathom how this had seemed like such an insurmountably bad idea two nights ago when now all he wanted to see, hear, smell, and touch was Stiles.

     Pupils dilated, red blotches standing out stark against his cheeks, Stiles was puffing out quick breaths through his mouth, lips moving faintly as though he was trying to find something to say and failing. Excited, Derek realized, as impatient for this moment as he was. The thought made his heart seem to skip and then suddenly Stiles blurted, “Oh my fucking God, please kiss me already,” in an overloud rush, then dove forward in an attempt to beat Derek to it.

     That was hardly surprising, Stiles being too impatient to leave to someone else what he could do himself, but Derek pre-empted the kiss by leaning back slightly. He ignored Stiles’s frustrated whine and gave a small shake of his head, pleased when Stiles got the hint for once and went quiet. Or quiet enough, anyway, despite his still perceptible trembling. Derek met his gaze and held it, letting Stiles feel the warm tickle of their breath mingling before Derek finally leaned in and gave him what they both wanted, mouths slotting together like the last piece of a jigsaw puzzle you’d misplaced under the couch and found again when you least expected it, years after you’d given up on ever seeing the completed picture.

     The first touch of their lips was something of a revelation. There was always one person, Derek thought, whom you wondered what it’d be like to kiss, and he supposed Stiles was it for him. He hadn’t been joking when he said the other day didn’t count, because that was nothing compared to this, mouths hot and already open against each other because neither of them was the type to do things by halves. Stiles’s lips were exactly as soft as they looked and every bit as plush, and as Derek pressed them more firmly together Stiles fluttered his eyelids shut and made a high-pitched sound in the back of his throat somewhere between a moan and a whimper. At that, Derek smiled to himself, because of course Stiles could never be silent, not even for this, but it was strangely satisfying as reactions went.

      Derek nudged Stiles’s knees a bit farther apart so he could stand in between them and get closer, craning his neck down for a better angle even as he tilted Stiles’s head up. The afternoon sunlight coming through the window was bright even from behind his closed eyelids. Tentatively, and because he wanted to savour the moment, he cupped his hand beneath Stiles’s jaw and traced the boy’s lips with his tongue without pulling away, enough to tantalize and hint at what came next. Stiles parted his lips obediently and gave a muffled gasp when Derek swept his tongue into his mouth, exploring hungrily. There was a time and a place for tenderness, and this wasn’t it; anyway, Derek hated kisses that lacked heat or were too slow to build. He was too impatient for that, especially now. From the response Derek was getting, he figured Stiles was in agreement.

     While not surprising, he had to admire Stiles’s enthusiasm, mirroring every movement and caress of Derek’s lips, pushing his face in closer every time he thought Derek might be pulling away. It was sloppy and inexperienced, about what Derek might’ve expected, and he finally _did_ withdraw with a gentle chuckle for when Stiles tried to chase after his lips.

     “Don’t open your mouth so wide,” he murmured, smoothing his fingers along Stiles’s cheekbone. Immediately Stiles blushed, and Derek should’ve known he’d be sensitive to that, even if Derek didn’t mean it as a reprimand. “Don’t be embarrassed—you wanted my help and I’m giving it.” Derek smirked when he remembered something Laura had told him when he was a teenager, and thought this was way less traumatic than having to ask for kissing advice from your _sister_. “Think focused attacks, not bombing the whole area at once, yeah?”

     Even Stiles laughed at that, mouth wide and surprised, and Derek, not for the first time, had to smile at how joy seemed to open up Stiles’s whole face and vibrate through his entire body. “Interesting analogy,” he said.

     “Wish I could take the credit for it.” Derek leaned in and kissed Stiles again, briefly, feeling at once how he took Derek’s advice and applied it. The difference in both the kiss and Stiles’s confidence was immediate, and a jolt of pleasure ran down Derek’s spine, wolf and man both liking how open to instruction Stiles was, how fucking _eager_ to please. “You have more control if you close your lips a little bit,” he said, pulling away ever so slightly. “See? Just like that.”

     Stiles bit his lip. “More control, huh?”

     “Mmm-hmm. And while you’re at it…”

     Derek reached out to curl his fingers around where Stiles’s hands still lay against the windowsill, clutching at the wood with a death grip. He probably didn’t even realize he’d been doing it this whole time, practically hanging on for dear life. Meeting Stiles’s eyes in what he hoped was an encouraging way, Derek moved one of Stiles’s hands to rest against his hip beneath the leather jacket, just above the line of his belt, while the other he placed against his chest.

     “… you _can_ touch me back, you know.”

     Stiles curled his fingers into the fabric of Derek’s shirt and around his hipbone, though his eyes flicked between the two points of contact he had with Derek’s body and Derek’s face, unable to settle. Experimentally he moved his hands to drag down Derek’s sides, fingers slowly cataloguing the bumps of his ribs beneath the T-shirt. Derek couldn’t help the way his breath hitched a little and distractedly saw how Stiles took that in, cataloguing everything. “Where, here? Is that good?”

     “Sure. Wherever you think you’d like to be touched is a start. Just run with it, Stiles.”

     Sighing, Derek settled his own hands on either side of Stiles’s neck, framing his jaw with his thumbs, and leaned their foreheads together. He felt Stiles breathe out against him and tilted his head again, reclaiming a kiss too long delayed. There was less hesitation now from Stiles, who recognized the opportunity to use his hands to get Derek closer with gentle tugs on his clothing, and who seemed to be concentrating pretty hard on what was the correct pressure and position of his lips. Derek quite enjoyed throwing him off with a well-timed bite to his bottom lip, dragging his hands down and down until he had Stiles’s slender waist trapped between his palms, clutching at him there and then sliding around to his back.

     It was nothing to get his fingers beneath the bottom of Stiles’s shirt, and Derek heard his own small noise of pleasure as all that hot, silky skin met his touch. He could just barely reach the place where Stiles’s ass began above the top of his low-riding jeans, extra pronounced because Stiles was still half-sitting on the windowsill. At the brush of fingers along that swell of flesh and the waistband of his underwear, Stiles cursed and wrapped his arms around Derek’s neck, simultaneously squirming closer and giving Derek more room to manoeuver back there. Tempting, sure, but Derek was working off a half-baked plan in his mind to take this slow.

     Pushing his face against Stiles’s neck to suck on his pulse point probably wasn’t the best way to execute that plan, in retrospect, but Stiles’s smell was so much stronger here, moans and delicious whimpers reverberating through his skin, and Derek could practically _taste_ his heartbeat thumping through his jugular. They were both hard already, and Derek didn’t even have the excuse of being a teenaged boy, but it felt incredibly good when Stiles rocked his pelvis up and discovered just the right angle and amount of friction, by instinct or accident didn’t matter. Thankfully his groan was the slightly louder of the two, and Derek bit down into the junction of Stiles’s throat and shoulder as a way to try and get himself under control.

     “Are we—are we, like, gonna do this right here? Right _now_?” Stiles spoke in even more of a rush than usual, sounding breathless. At first Derek couldn’t parse what the hell he was saying beyond the flash of dithering panic in his voice, like Stiles was anxious but couldn’t quite decide whether he _should_ be. “Because I didn’t—didn’t exactly prepare, you know, _anything_ , and this underwear is totally not what I thought I’d be wearing when—”

     With a frown, Derek pulled back and saw Stiles looking at him with exactly the kind of doe eyes he always dreaded, so serious and wide you could practically see the thoughts racing a mile a minute through Stiles’s mind. It stirred up the usual protective instincts Derek had learned to live with, pretty much from the time he and Stiles ever met, and realized he was the one getting Stiles worked up, the one who needed to slow his fucking roll. Of _course_ Stiles would feel desperate to lose his virginity and scared shitless of it at the same time. That wasn’t a criticism, just something Derek had momentarily forgotten in the rush of blood away from his brain.

      A frustrated sound escaped him and Derek leaned his forehead against Stiles’s collarbone, half of it exposed by the too-big neckline of his T-shirt. “Shit,” he muttered, and when he felt Stiles squirm in displeasure, added, “Not you. I got a bit carried away, sorry.”

     He all but heard Stiles’s frown. “So… no sex?”

     “No sex,” Derek agreed, managing not to chuckle at the confused disappointment in Stiles’s voice, then straightened up. “We probably could’ve talked about this a bit more before—”

     “Before you jumped me?” With his hair mussed and his lips and face flushed, Stiles was looking a bit more than ravaged. But his smile came as easy as ever, and Derek found himself breathing a small sigh of relief. Maybe they were both trying really hard not to look freaked out by what’d just happened, the fact that they were two friends who’d just made out with each other. And liked it. A lot. Either they were doing a really good job at playing it cool, or Derek was still terrible at reading people. “What’s to talk about?”

     Derek made a quick decision. He hadn’t really thought this through any more than Stiles, evidently, but there was what felt honourable and what didn’t, and Derek had worked it out pretty early on that anything that didn’t do right by Stiles wasn’t a course of action he wanted to take; even if he wasn’t, strictly speaking, what most folks considered the honourable sort. Being a werewolf wasn’t justification for being a dick, and Stiles was pack. Family. Special. Just because Derek had lost his own virginity under overwhelmingly disturbing circumstances didn’t mean he couldn’t try to normalize the experience somewhat for Stiles, especially since he was placing a rather large amount of trust in Derek not to fuck things up seven ways from Sunday.

     “I want to take this slow,” he said, almost unable to believe the words coming out of his own mouth. Somehow looking down into Stiles’s upturned face made it a little easier. “Maybe that sounds stupid to you, and it probably is, but I’d really like it if you don’t look back on losing your virginity in a couple years and hate my guts for not doing it properly.” Assuming, that is, Stiles didn’t hate his guts for anything else by then.

     “You mean you want to use extra lube and stuff?” asked Stiles cautiously, nose wrinkling.

     Rolling his eyes, Derek forced himself to relinquish his grip on Stiles and took a full step back, trying very hard not to gawp at the general state of him, the bulge that remained in his jeans and his T-shirt rucked up from Derek’s hands. Judging by the way Stiles’s own eyes immediately dipped to Derek’s crotch and then back up to his face, Derek figured he looked about the same.

     “I mean that under normal circumstances you’d probably go out with someone a few times, right?” Stiles shrugged and made the kind of face that meant he both understood and didn’t at the same time—if these were normal circumstances, Derek probably wouldn’t be here right now. “I’m not suggesting we start going out on dates or anything, because that would honestly be weird, but I’d feel a little better if we at least pretended to give this some lead-in. Like… take things one step at a time.”

     Stiles looked far too amused for Derek’s liking, but nodded and stuffed his hands into his pockets. Ironically—or with what Derek hoped was irony—he said, “No, I get it. You wanna treat a lady right.” Derek snorted, but when Stiles’s face softened he got the feeling that somewhere, somehow, he’d said the right thing. “Do you want to… have dinner or something? Watch a movie?” The humour faded from Stiles’s expression. Pausing, he worried his lip with his teeth. “I just realized I have no freaking idea how this normally happens, and neither would you. Maybe I could ask Scott how he and Alli—”

     “No.” Derek barked out the word a bit more abruptly than he’d intended and was met by Stiles’s arched eyebrows. “We can’t be talking to the rest of the pack about this,” he said in a more moderate tone. “Eventually we’ll have to come up with a cover story, but for now I think it’s best if we keep this to ourselves. It’s only a matter of time before someone starts wondering why you smell like me anyway.”

     Stiles shrugged. “Didn’t you say there are ways to hide the scent of people you hook up with?”

     “For me, maybe, but once we—” Derek, catching the way Stiles’s eyes darkened and his cheeks flushed even redder, had to break off to swallow. He couldn’t decide what was more difficult: talking about it, or not grabbing Stiles again when he started to think about the two of them having sex. If he thought fantasizing about him was addictive, it was nothing compared to how strong the urge to touch Stiles was now that he’d started. “Once that happens, there’s no way you’ll be able to unmark yourself, and no way I know of not to leave my scent on you. For all intents and purposes, you’re going to smell like my property to every other wolf you meet.” Unsurprisingly, that comment made Stiles furrow his brow.

     Well, it was better if Stiles understood how this all worked sooner rather than later. And what a shitstorm that would be. Derek didn’t know whether the rest of the pack would be elated or pissed off about he and Stiles messing around. Either way, it meant he and Stiles would both have to be very careful about who they associated with outside of one another, since Derek knew it wasn’t an option to let the pack know this was only a temporary thing. It didn’t matter how much everyone knew and loved Stiles, or how rational their human selves were about this arrangement—if they thought for even a second Stiles might somehow hurt Derek by leaving and in turn betray the pack, they would respond protectively, violently. But they’d have to cross that bridge when they got to it, wouldn’t they? Derek could only deal with one thing at a time, and he was already feeling a little overwhelmed.

     “It’s best if we keep this to ourselves,” he said again.

     “Yeah, you mentioned that already.”

     Stiles was starting to look a little overwhelmed himself, so Derek exhaled heavily and motioned to him with his hand. “Come here.”

     Warily, Stiles pulled his hands from the pockets of his jeans and pushed off from the windowsill, taking the couple steps needed to bring them within a few inches of each other. Derek placed a proprietary hand on the side of Stiles’s neck. He still looked—and smelled—absolutely delicious to Derek’s senses, like something he could just _devour_ , and while that scared him a bit, it was also a perverse thrill to see how Stiles dropped his eyes to rest on Derek’s mouth as well. His Adam’s apple kept bobbing around a series of swallows like he badly needed a drink and couldn’t find a drop anywhere. When Stiles lifted his gaze to meet Derek’s, he had a glazed look about the eyes Derek recognized instantly, drugged-out and wanting.

     Stifling an instinctive curse, Derek tugged Stiles close, surprising himself with his own gentleness as he guided their mouths together and kissed him. This time Stiles didn’t hesitate, either feeling surer of himself or in greater need of contact, and slid his hands into Derek’s hair, mussing it and lightly digging his fingertips into his scalp; this time it was him sucking gently on Derek’s lower lip, his tongue pushing into Derek’s mouth until Derek muffled a moan into the kiss. By the time Stiles pulled away he was panting, tiny, needy sounds escaping him that to Derek sounded sweeter than if Stiles had begged. His mouth was as red and slick as a burst cherry.

     “Saturday,” Stiles gasped out, trailing his hands down to cling at the lapels of Derek’s jacket. “My dad starts his next block of graveyard shifts on Saturday, you could come over then.”

     What the hell was today? Derek wondered fuzzily. Thursday? Two days, he could do that. Two days and it didn’t even mean he had to make a point of staying away between now and then, it just meant he would have to stick to the plan a little longer, hone his restraint.

     “Saturday works,” said Derek, and began walking Stiles backward towards the bed. “Now show me again what you just did with your tongue.”

     


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "If agreeing to have sex with someone because they asked wasn’t proof enough you were wrapped around their little finger, nothing was."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, my thanks goes out to akadougal, blue_fjords, and RC_McLachlan for the super-helpful betas, and qthelights for cheerleading and handholding. This chapter is rated NC-17, or at least a hard R.

     Stiles was already waiting for him on the front porch when Derek was more than half a block away, Camaro idling on the side of the road as he watched Jack Stilinski’s squad car disappear around the corner, adding on a few minutes extra just in case the Sheriff turned around and came back. Daylight still faded early at this time of the year, drowning everything in the harsh orange glow of dying twilight before most people even sat down to dinner, but Derek recognized Stiles easily even from almost a hundred yards away, the dark tousle of his hair and pale gleam of his skin distinct against the old brick facade of the Stilinski residence. 

     The only one who _shouldn’t_ have been able to see anything was Stiles, not with his shitty human night vision, but Derek could feel the certainty of Stiles’s gaze on him as he ambled slowly up the street with his hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets. Of course he would know exactly where Derek liked to park and how long he would wait before approaching the house; because he was Stiles, and Stiles never missed stuff like that. Not where Derek was concerned.

     At moments like this, Derek sometimes didn’t know what to do with himself or what to make of this friendship. It was the recurring suspicion that maybe, just maybe, he was in over his head. Objectively speaking, Derek didn’t need much by way of validation to know that Stiles cared about him the way he did Scott or Lydia or any of the others—he wasn’t a fourteen-year-old boy, not that he’d had many friends at that age anyway—but that’s not what this was about. (Besides, if agreeing to have sex with someone because they _asked_ wasn’t proof enough you were wrapped around their little finger, nothing was.) No, Derek’s problem wasn’t that he lacked evidence of how well he and Stiles knew one another, or how far they’d go for each other—it’s that he had too much. The phrase “an embarrassment of riches” struck him as the most apt for the situation, because not only did Derek feel like Stiles had given him far more than he deserved, but to say it discomfited him a little was a colossal understatement. 

     “I made extra sure he packed his lunch, phone, medication, office keys, and eyeglasses before he left,” Stiles said in greeting as Derek ambled up the last couple porch steps. “The hardworking Sheriff of Beacon Hills has enough provisions to last him a week. No surprise interruptions tonight, no sir.”

     Derek smirked at that, though if what Stiles said was true, he was surprised Jack Stilinski had left the house at all—there was no way Stiles had made “extra sure” of anything without acting a complete and utter sketchbag about it, as Scott would say. But Derek could tell from the way Stiles was nervously rolling, unrolling, then rolling his shirt cuffs back up that he was anxious enough already, and his hair bore the signs of someone who’d run their fingers through it a few times, the chocolate-brown strands sticking up more than usual at the front. 

     That was the last thing Derek wanted to come of this evening. Although they’d tortured themselves with hours of making out yesterday, relishing the hands that got more and more daring, more confident, upon parting they’d agreed nothing even had to happen tonight. Or at least that’s what Derek decided upon seeing the deer-in-headlights expression that appeared on Stiles’s face when he said, “See you tomorrow,” with all the weight that implied. 

     Despite his brave front and “get ’er done” attitude about the whole thing, it was clear Stiles was nervous about taking the next step. The sentiment was understandable, since Derek was experiencing his fair share of anticipation for someone who hadn’t been a virgin in almost a decade. As such, he’d promised himself not to get ahead of himself until he and Stiles had covered a few more bases together, preferably a few times each. Feeling like he’d pressured Stiles into going too far, too soon, was not something he wanted to deal with. Maddening for both of them, yes, but if Stiles had hung on to his virginity for eighteen years, another couple weeks wouldn’t kill him.

     A moth batted up against one of the porch lamps near the door; Derek glanced at it and watched the insect’s futile attempts to get at the light source, drawn by the movement and quiet tapping of its body on the glass. From the corner of his eye, he saw Stiles peering at it, too. Neither one said anything for a few seconds, which was unusual for Stiles, but when Derek looked back he still had his face upturned towards the moth, observing it with a blank expression. 

     As politely as possible, Derek cleared his throat. “Want to go inside?”

     Stiles jerked and turned surprised eyes on him. “Huh?”

     Unable to help it, Derek smiled. He found Stiles’s distracted nervousness endearing in spite of himself. “Inside,” he repeated, nodding at the open door. He almost added, _Unless you want to put on a show for your neighbours?_ but caught himself at the last second, not sure if that would freak Stiles out more. His eyes already looked ready to bug out of his head.

     “Oh, right. Uh… yeah, come in.” Cheeks flushed, Stiles gestured towards the interior of the house and stepped back so Derek could pass. Admittedly it was rare they ever observed the formalities most people took for granted when visiting one another’s homes, like invitations or knocking. Or doors. They were breaking new ground every day.

     As he stepped past the threshold and into the front foyer of the house, Derek put a hand on Stiles’s shoulder and gave a gentle squeeze. “You look good,” he said calmly, offering a small smile and as much reassurance as he knew how. 

     Stiles preened a little at that, albeit in his uncertain, disbelieving way. He’d donned a blue plaid button-down that hugged his shoulders and dark jeans that emphasized the trimness of his hips and legs. The compliment sat awkwardly on Derek’s tongue, but he figured that’s what people _did_ , right? Flattery and sex went together like, well… flattery and sex. Or condoms and lube. He had both tucked away in his wallet just in case. In a small way, though, Stiles’s answering smile was worth it, and it’s not like Derek had told a lie. Were this a normal date, now might’ve been a good time to move in for a kiss, too, but this wasn’t a date and it certainly wasn’t normal. Or course, nothing about Derek and Stiles’s interactions was on par with the status quo lately, and the weirdness had become in a way routine with them. Just another day at the office.

     The front door still hung ajar. “You might want to get that,” Derek prompted when Stiles didn’t say or do anything else. Mosquitoes were meandering their way into the house, drawn by the light, and even they seemed to have a better idea of what they were doing here than Derek or Stiles.

     No amount of scowling could distract from the fact that Stiles’s face was still flushed from the cheeks down. “You’re just full of ideas tonight, huh, wise guy?” he muttered. Biting the inside of his lip, he moved to shut the door and slammed it a tad too hard.

     “Just stating a fact.”

     Stiles narrowed his eyes. “Clearly letting you in through the front door was a mistake,” he said. “I can tell this is already throwing us off.”

     Derek laughed awkwardly, caught somewhere between first- and second-hand embarrassment, but if nothing Stiles’s comment helped break some of the tension. Stiles returned a rueful smile, and Derek decided then and there that if neither of them had a fucking clue what they were doing, they could either treat tonight like a real date and run with it, or pretend like this was yet another night hanging out together in the comfort of somebody’s home. Just because Stiles had put some thought into his outfit and was surreptitiously shooting Derek hopeful looks from beneath his eyelashes didn’t have to throw them entirely off their game. Theoretically.

     Somehow they both ended up trying to speak at once, and neither one according to plan; Derek asked, “How’s your dad?” at the same time Stiles said, “I like what you did with your, um… hair.” 

     The last word crashed like a downed aircraft, a stunned silence settling as Derek’s eyebrows shot skyward. Stiles met Derek’s gaze while a flurry of emotions crossed his face, running the gamut from shocked to appalled to like Stiles very badly wanted to disappear into the floor. Then—unexpectedly—a huge laugh erupted out of him, white teeth flashing in his face, shoulders hunching towards his ears as though he’d just heard the funniest joke of his fucking _life_. Whatever it was, Derek had missed it.

     He was trying to process what’d just happened when Stiles cut himself off mid-guffaw and abruptly speed-walked into the kitchen without looking back. Confused, Derek frowned and followed at a more sedate pace. 

     Stiles’s house was pretty small by Beacon Hills standards, meaning it was difficult to beat a retreat without the other person catching up to you in a few steps. Still, it’d been around decades longer than most of the new-build houses in the area, and therefore had character. Although Derek and Stiles rarely ventured outside of Stiles’s bedroom, and that was before they’d started making out with each other, Derek always felt at home in the Stilinski residence, liked its clutter, its age, the distinct feeling of having been lived in. The kitchen was just as cramped and outdated as the rest, but having Stiles in it was a point in its favour, too.

     No doubt Stiles expected Derek to make an offhand remark about his little foible, which was partially why Derek left it alone. Mostly, however, he just wanted to move past it and try to pretend the awkwardness wasn’t there.

     “Pizza?” he suggested instead. 

     That seemed a normal enough activity, though maybe not for them; they almost never did pizza except as a by-product of research that had run too late or if the pack was collectively feeling too lazy to cook. Plus Derek kind of hated all that grease and cheese and bread, which tended to sit like a rock in his stomach even with a werewolf’s metabolism. But Stiles lived for it, and Derek—didn’t even know the protocol here. Was it virgin’s choice? 

     This whole “hanging out” thing was getting more complicated by the second, and he had to wonder why any self-respecting individual put himself through this song and dance instead of getting down to business. He almost opened his mouth to inquire why they didn’t do just that before he remembered taking it slow had been his idea.

     Fortunately Stiles was quick to seize upon the suggestion, for once in his life heading additional awkwardness off at the pass rather than adding to it. “Right, pizza. Good plan,” he said in a rush.

     In a blink, Stiles had his phone out and was dialing the regular place with a look of grim determination on his face. It gave Derek a measure of relief to see some semblance of normalcy in this action, and along with it the certainty that Stiles wouldn’t even have to ask what toppings he wanted. That was something else Derek tended to take for granted, maybe, except not right now. Knowing everyone’s food preferences was something Stiles had down almost to a science, and Derek set himself to pulling out plates and paper towel to use for napkins while Stiles paced and rattled off their order into the phone in a voice pitched slightly higher than normal. 

     He rang off with a grateful “Okay, forty minutes? Cool,” and gave a small huff as he turned to face Derek. “They said—”

     “Forty minutes, I heard.” Stiles pressed his lips into a thin smile that could only be described as unimpressed, and Derek shrugged. “What do you want to do until then?”

     It was a loaded question and they both knew it, though Stiles of course had to ruin the suspense by flapping his hands in an indecisive gesture that he accompanied with a small whine. Some people wore their hearts on their sleeves, Derek figured, and while Stiles certainly did do that, he also happened to wear his awkwardness like a coat of fucking armour. “Uh… movie? Xbox? Chatroulette? I bet you’d be hilarious at that.”

     Derek snorted. “First of all, I don’t even know what that last one is, and secondly, do I strike you as much of a movie or Xbox guy?

     Surprisingly, Stiles brightened, and apparently Derek had said the right thing. Biting his lip in a way that Derek found frankly offensive in the midst of all the tension in the room, Stiles breezed past him and into the den, giving Derek’s stomach an innocuous pat as he went by. Out of ideas, Derek trailed after him. 

     “While I would _love_ to see you decimate some Nazi zombies,” he said, incomprehensibly, “I didn’t figure you for the gaming type. I did, however, queue up _An American Werewolf in London_ on Netflix. Just in case.”

      Three years and it still hadn’t gotten old. Derek opened his mouth to protest and found himself swiftly cut off.

     “Before you even say anything, it’s legitimately a good movie. And I can never get Scott to watch it with me because it was made before the year 2000.”

     “ _Scott_ was made before the year 2000,” Derek pointed out.

     “Try telling that to him!” Stiles threw up his hands in mock outrage. “But seriously, it’s either this or listen to me talk about that hilarious-as-shit YouTube video I found this afternoon of a screaming sheep.” His eyes went very wide, and Derek was a bit scared. “A screaming sheep, Derek, for real. Which I might talk about anyway, because the Internet? That shit’s cray. I almost pissed—”

     Derek found himself with his hands clapped over Stiles’s mouth with no idea how they got there. He looked down at Stiles’s raised eyebrows and said, “ _An American Werewolf in London_ sounds fine,” before he could listen to any more. He knew from Isaac’s web-surfing habits how quickly an innocent video of a screaming sheep could snowball into shit that would keep even Derek awake at night.

     Stiles nodded, but Derek kept his hands where they were for a moment longer just to make sure they understood each other. What he definitely didn’t expect to feel was the slick wetness of Stiles’s tongue against his palm. He jerked his hand back like he’d been jabbed with a cattle prod. Except the jab didn’t hurt, and it certainly didn’t leave Derek feeling disinclined to go back for more. 

     “Did you just lick me?” he asked unnecessarily.

     “It got you to move your hand, didn’t it?”

     Not waiting for an answer, Stiles sidestepped around Derek and moved to the couch. He plopped himself down on one end and snatched up the TV remote from the side table. Smirking, he patted the cushion next to him. Derek went, settling into the corner on the opposite side.

     A space about three feet wide separated them, and Derek caught himself staring at it while Stiles turned on the TV and flipped through a few different screens to access the Netflix connection. It was scarcely longer than the length of his arm, that space, but for the life of him Derek couldn’t decide whether he should just cross it or leave things be. Mauling Stiles seemed too inelegant a solution, and stretching his arm out along the back of the couch with a fake yawn would only mean Derek really ought to consider killing himself immediately. 

     The question continued to bother him until he noticed Stiles had gone still and silent. He looked up to find Stiles had followed the direction of Derek’s gaze and was looking between the two of them with an impressive furrow between his brows.

     Their eyes met, and after a second, Stiles cleared his throat. “Should we—”

     Nope. “I think I hear the pizza,” Derek said quickly. Although it had barely been more than ten minutes, he jumped up off the couch and went to go stand on the front porch, ready for the sound of the delivery guy’s car the second it rounded the corner of the next block. It might’ve just been his imagination, but he thought he heard Stiles heave a frustrated sigh from inside.

     And Derek was supposed to be the adult here—the experienced one—really? Yeah, right. He couldn’t decide whether the thought of making an ass of himself terrified him more, or just the thought of fucking things up. Fucking _Stiles_ up. Because Derek realized the kid back inside the house was jamming some kind of important signal to his brain, filling him with static and snow. This must be what stage fright felt like. The props were set and everyone was in their places, and Derek had forgotten all his lines as soon as the lights went up.

     Miraculously, he’d only been waiting a few minutes when he heard the rumble of an old Toyota—why did pizza delivery people always drive old Toyotas?—from down the street, which materialized into a battered Tercel with a Domino’s sticker on the side pulling into the Stilinskis’ driveway. Derek had never been more grateful to pay someone off for a slab of grease-soaked bread and a legitimate reason to go back inside the house. 

     When he returned to the living room carrying the pizza box and the plates from the kitchen, Derek found Stiles sitting cross-legged on the couch and texting someone on his phone. Probably Scott. He didn’t seem annoyed or suspicious that Derek had rushed outside so quickly, though he did glance up with a curious tilt to his head as Derek sat back down beside him, placing the pizza on top of the coffee table. Derek simply stared back with his face as blank as he could make it until Stiles shrugged and dove for the lid of the box, tossing his phone somewhere into the couch cushions. At least he was still reliably distracted by food.

     “What do I owe you for that?” Stiles asked after he’d taken his first bite of steaming pizza. The words game out garbled around the food, but Derek recognized the question from the tone of voice and the inquiring look in Stiles’s eyes.

     “Nothing,” he replied honestly, grabbing a plate off the top of the pile to shove it into Stiles’s unoccupied hand. No less than a second later, a large glob of tomato sauce plopped down onto the plate where Stiles’s jeans would’ve been otherwise.

     “Thanks,” mumbled Stiles, then stuffed the rest of the slice into his mouth so he could free his other hand to pick up the remote. 

     Derek made a show of rolling his eyes and then reached for his own piece of pizza. Although he’d claimed to have no preference either way, his stomach rumbled betrayingly at the smell of a meat-lover’s special wafting towards his nose.

     Once he’d cued up the movie to play, Stiles set his plate down on the end table and rose from the couch, giving a long stretch with his arms over his head that Derek deliberately didn’t watch, even despite the pale strip of skin that revealed itself out of the corner of his eye. “Gonna get something to drink before the opening credits end,” Stiles said. “You want anything? My dad has beer, I’m sure he won’t notice if one goes missing.”

     “With a teenaged son in the house?” retorted Derek. “Unlikely.” He shook his head and chuckled. It was pretty doubtful the sheriff would be reassured if Stiles later explained he’d given alcohol to a formerly wanted criminal. While he was at it, he may as well fill his father in that said criminal had stopped by to deflower him. While Jack Stilinski was well aware of Derek and Stiles’s friendship, they hadn’t exactly progressed to the stage of having Sunday evening dinner together. Derek severely doubted that day would ever come if the news broke about their little arrangement. “Just grab me whatever you’re having.”

     Muttering to himself about the lack of trust in the world, Stiles disappeared back into the kitchen and returned carrying two cans of Coke, one of which he tossed to Derek. The throw was aimed at his head, Derek was pretty sure, but he caught it easily and flicked it with his finger a few times to make sure it wouldn’t fizz up in his face when he opened it. Then he cracked open the tab, taking a noisy sip just to see Stiles scowl and fling himself down on the sofa like every bit the sullen teenager he sometimes was.

     They were barely twenty minutes into the movie before Stiles started to stretch out on the couch, sinking down into the corner cushions and sticking out his legs. It was a big sofa, but there wasn’t enough room on it for both of them to sit without touching with Stiles starfished out this way. He seemed to know that and jammed his socked feet underneath Derek’s thigh with a determined look in his eyes, challenging Derek to contradict him.

     There was no need, though Derek did stare back at him with an eyebrow cocked in a silent question. Pointedly, Stiles said, “My toes are cold.”

     Derek sighed. What was the point in arguing when he wouldn’t win and hardly gave a shit where Stiles put his feet, anyway? Admittedly he enjoyed the feeling of Stiles’s toes wiggling beneath his thigh, seeking out the warm places; he liked how comfortable it was to sit this way, how familiar and thrilling at the same time. 

     The pack frequently piled on top of each other on the couch, Derek pulled into the mix more often than not, and once upon a time his family had been the same way. Like full wolves, they strengthened their bond through physical closeness as much as hunting and running together. Stiles called it their pack snuggle-fests, but it wasn’t romantic the way the word implied, and it certainly wasn’t sexual. Or at least it wasn’t between Derek and the other members of his pack. Probably it was different now that they’d gone and formed pair bonds amongst themselves, and the wolves—even the humans among them—did seem more physically demonstrative with one another since they’d chosen mates. 

     But when Derek examined it more closely, he realized Stiles had in fact withdrawn somewhat from those activities as of late, holding himself slightly separate even though no one would have questioned or rejected his participation. Derek didn’t need an explanation for why that was, but he considered how readily—hastily, even—Stiles had established physical contact between them, and recognized that didn’t mean Stiles didn’t still want that closeness for himself. Hell, Derek had spent years pushing people away or otherwise avoiding human contact, and he sure as shit never stopped missing the simple warmth of another’s touch.

     Either way, this type of intimacy was new territory for them both. They touched all the time these days, exchanging friendly pats or affectionate swats, never hesitated to offer an arm or a body to lean against when one of them was hurt or tired. But this was different from all that, different even from kissing or letting hands rove under clothes; it didn’t, at first try, feel like it was for _them_. Derek’s mind had long ago associated it with something lovers did, and that’s not what they were. Yet. Derek didn’t even know if this should be allowed.

     After a moment’s hesitation wherein he pretended he was able to concentrate on the movie, Derek laid his hand over Stiles’s foot and curled his fingers around his ankle. For a moment he rested them there without moving, but his hand seemed to have a life of its own and soon started rubbing back and forth in tiny movements, massaging lightly around the bone. 

     Stiles made an odd sound and went motionless, eyes wide and focused on Derek, but the stillness didn’t last. He jumped up off the couch almost immediately and grabbed his and Derek’s Coke cans, then padded into the kitchen with an offhand “Need another soda!” 

     When he came back with their drinks, Derek expected Stiles to flop down on the sofa so he could get comfortable again—so they could get comfortable _together_ , he realized a beat later—and Stiles did, after a fashion. Once considering Derek a moment with slightly narrowed eyes, Stiles lay back down, except this time he did so with his feet pointing in the other direction and his back nestled up against Derek’s side.

     It should’ve been the most relaxed position in the world, but Derek was tense and could feel Stiles was, too, spine straight as a board. “Is this okay?” he asked after a few seconds had ticked by.

     Derek wanted to tell him no, because “okay” did not best describe the tight feeling currently settling into his chest, but he was also self-aware enough to recognize that was nerves talking and nothing more. He liked having Stiles against him like this, warm and familiar and _close_. The loss of him would’ve registered, even for Stiles to return to the opposite end of the couch, and Derek decided that was worth manning up over. Besides, he ought to have a blanket pass to touch Stiles whenever he felt like it, considering he’d basically sold himself to the kid in marriage or whatever. So instead of responding out loud, he lifted his arm and settled it around Stiles’s shoulders, letting his hand drop against Stiles’s chest. He couldn’t send a more direct message than that, he didn’t think, but nevertheless breathed a quiet sigh of relief when Stiles received it loud and clear, immediately relaxing into Derek’s body.

     They more or less stayed like that for the rest of the movie, occasionally moving to grab another slice of pizza or their drinks from the table. Derek’s legs were growing restless from sitting in the same position for so long with Stiles’s virtual dead weight against his side. Around the halfway point of the film, during the scene when David Kessler has his first nightmare about his friend Jack as a reanimated corpse— _Charming_ , thought Derek—he shifted his feet up onto the couch so he could recline against the arm. Ignoring Stiles’s grumping over being forced to move, Derek tugged him back between the V of his legs so they could still lie together. Almost as soon as he’d finished getting comfortable, Derek replaced his arm around Stiles and pulled him close again. The movie played on.

     Aside from having Stiles against his chest—and, well, between his legs—Derek saw no discernible difference between how they were lying together now and how they were before. Maybe it was more comfortable and he could press his mouth against the back of Stiles’s skull if he turned his head, but that was all. Derek was perfectly relaxed in this position and feeling pretty good about it until he noticed Stiles had grown more tense instead of less, heartbeat thumping steadily harder. When Derek leaned in to nose gently behind Stiles’s ear, Stiles seemed to brace himself even more.

     “Hey, you good?” Derek asked in a murmur.

     “Good? Why wouldn’t I be good?” That was a convincing enough answer, except maybe for the squeak in Stiles’s voice.

     Derek slid his hands up to Stiles’s shoulders and squeezed the muscles at their roundest point, hoping the gesture came across as soothing in the way he intended. “You’re bullshitting the wrong person,” he chuckled. “I can feel you’re on edge.”

     “I’m not.” Stiles gave Derek a perfunctory glance over his shoulder and then attempted to refocus his attention on the movie. “I’m fine. Really.”

     “Whatever you say.” 

     Since Stiles was the one who’d draped himself across Derek like one would a fainting couch, Derek had no idea why he was stressed. Nervousness, maybe? Anticipation? Honesty didn’t seem to be too forthcoming from Stiles’s corner, however, so he let it drop and concentrated instead on finding a way to get Stiles to unwind again. There was the obvious solution, but Derek didn’t think that would freak Stiles out less to begin with. 

     His hands were in the right place for a massage, though, and he decided that was as good a place to start as any. No pressure or expectations, just a pair of willing hands and some tense muscles. After all, Isaac and his magic fingers treated everyone’s shoulders to a little TLC now and again, too, and that was never anything but completely innocent. This was virtually the same thing, since Derek and Stiles hadn’t once kissed each other this evening.

     “Lean back all the way against me,” he told Stiles gently. “Gonna try something.”

     Obediently, if hesitantly, Stiles let himself become a warm, boneless mass against his chest as Derek worked his fingers slowly into his back and shoulders, kneading with firm pressure and using his thumbs to release knots in the muscles. He had no real idea what he was doing, but knew enough about human musculature to wing it and could read the changes in Stiles’s breathing, heartbeat, and the rigidity of his body to know when to ease up and when to go harder. 

     Whatever he was doing, Stiles seemed to respond to it well enough, gradually becoming more loose and relaxed until he was leaning all his weight against Derek and murmuring contentedly, like he was about to fall asleep. The change made Derek feel absurdly pleased with himself. Of course he could smell his touch was getting Stiles a little worked up in other ways, but it was a quiet, unhurried build, as if Stiles being turned on was just a by-product of their closeness, rather than the goal. Given that Derek found himself in much the same state the longer the massage continued, that seemed about right.

     And it _was_ fine, all part of the plan, because Derek sure as shit wasn’t in any rush either. Not when they had all night. Not when this was important.

     “That feels really good, dude,” Stiles sighed, sounding blissed-out and peaceful, and Derek made a quiet humming noise next to his ear.

     “Yeah?” he answered. At Stiles’s lazy nod, Derek smiled and pressed his lips against the side of his neck, then rubbed gently so that Stiles would feel the rasp of stubble against his sensitive skin. Unsurprisingly, he squirmed a little and gasped. “ _You_ feel really good,” Derek told him. His fingers continued to knead at a leisurely pace. “I can smell how much you’re enjoying this.”

     “Mmmm, that’s both hot and creepy.” 

     Stiles gave a small laugh and flexed his toes where they rested at the other end of the couch. He was completely ignoring the movie now, which continued to play in the background. Derek, too, could care less, though he glanced over once to see the nurse and the werewolf having sex. Go figure. 

     “I probably don’t even need to bother to tell you when you do something I like,” said Stiles.

     Derek shrugged. “You likely will anyway,” he pointed out, “but no, it’s not hard to guess.”

     Seeking to make his point, though it was probably unnecessary, Derek opened his mouth against the pulse point behind Stiles’s ear and sucked at it with the gentlest pressure, just hard enough to make Stiles whine quietly and exhale what to Derek sounded like “finally.” 

     He proceeded to trail slow kisses down Stiles’s throat interspersed with the odd nip or lave of his tongue. He heard the shuddered “ _Fuck_ ,” and the small gasps Stiles made in place of normal breaths, felt the heartbeat rapidly pick up as Stiles’s body temperature rose and his arousal began to spike. At the scrape of Derek’s teeth upon his earlobe, Stiles arched his back with sudden violence and gave a full-out moan, his peaceful state forgotten. It seemed there wasn’t a man alive who didn’t respond viscerally to a slow attack on his ears like that, and Derek chuckled in a way that probably made him sound like a dirty old man. He was surprisingly okay with that.

     “Holy crap, Derek,” Stiles forced out, straining up against where Derek’s hands still held his shoulders. “Warn a guy, would you?” His face was flushed and his mouth hung open in just the way that drove Derek crazy; even with Stiles’s head partially blocking his line of sight, he could see those full lips formed a perfect O of surprise that Derek wanted to bite at with his teeth.

     “I do consider this a warning,” Derek retorted.

     “Jesus, for _what_?”

     With a subtle shake his head, Derek pulled his hands away and shifted them both around a little bit so he could get his arms underneath Stiles’s, giving him better access to the body sprawled between his legs. It’s like they were practically one person this way. Or at least that’s how it would seem to Stiles, who could watch Derek’s hands doing what he might’ve done to himself, minus the self-control. 

     Stiles was a smart kid; he figured out Derek’s intentions right away. “Oh fuck,” he said, thighs tensing. He started to writhe like he wanted to get away from Derek altogether, and Derek wondered which of them was more affected by the brief struggle—the kid with the erection straining his jeans, or the guy whose lap he was squirming in like a live fish. “You’re gonna—gonna—”

     “Be still, baby,” Derek interrupted in a low voice, and Stiles froze. 

     Derek didn’t kid himself that Stiles had suddenly learned to take orders; he was probably responding more to the endearment than the instruction. Of course Derek wasn’t the type to “baby” anyone—like, not _ever_ , to be clear—and the word tasted completely foreign to him. But he also didn’t know whether that was the kind of thing Stiles needed, something to reassure and take them both out of themselves. It seemed an acceptable guess under the circumstances, even if Stiles mocked him for it later. Right now he was putting up approximately zero resistance to anything, so it probably didn’t matter. 

     “Hold on to me if you have to, but I don’t want you interfering.” Obediently Stiles clamped his hands down on Derek’s knees, which were the closest things in reach given how they were lying together. He had such a grip on him that Derek almost winced. “That’s good. You okay?”

     Stiles continued to breathe noisily for a moment but then nodded once, a sharp jerk of his head.

     At first Derek didn’t do anything different, continuing to kiss Stiles’s neck and down to the junction of his shoulder like they had all the time in the world, which they kind of did. Having his arms like this also allowed Derek to reach for Stiles’s face more easily, and he turned Stiles’s head so he could guide their mouths together, not caring that Stiles was panting too hard for it to be very graceful. 

     While he’d never been with a virgin before, Derek supposed it was normal to consider the idea of having sex with someone inexperienced as tedious; but seeing Stiles’s excitement, his hair-trigger responses, the way it took almost nothing to put him on edge like this—that made it pretty damn worth it in Derek’s eyes. Was that how Kate had seen him, once upon a time? The thought made him shudder. He knew his own relationship with sex was all kinds of fucked-up, his history with Kate like a mess of scar tissue just beneath the skin; with other people, that sense of wrongness seemed to cloud and colour everything, forcing him to hold back the same way he reined in his wolf during the full moon. 

     God, Derek didn’t want to pollute this for Stiles like Kate had done to him, wondered if it was possible not to. If wanting to give good things to someone was enough to break the cycle. He already felt different with Stiles, more natural and less like a puppet trying to work its own strings, but Christ did it scare the ever-loving shit out of him. Maybe he needed this to be a first for both of them, not just Stiles. After all, the kid always had a way of making Derek want—want to have, give, _be_ —things he’d have never given a second thought otherwise. 

     They kissed lazily for a few minutes even as Stiles continued to wriggle, getting impatient, and Derek stroked his hands lightly up and down his arms in an attempt to settle him down, get him calm for what would come next. Because it could only build from here, which Stiles had to have realized, and Derek wanted him to experience everything with a certain amount of lucidity and not blind lust.

     Stiles stiffened and whimpered into Derek’s mouth when Derek undid the first button of his shirt, fingertips barely brushing the skin underneath. He jerked his head away to watch the process of Derek’s hands, then just as quickly pushed his face back against Derek’s jaw, nose bumping Derek’s cheekbone while he breathed noisily through his mouth and subtly fucked the air with his hips, seeking friction that wasn’t there. 

     Derek was far from quiet himself, but his faint murmurs of appreciation and praise sounded like they came from someone else as he revealed inch after inch of Stiles’s pale body, his pink nipples already hardened to points, the dark smattering of hair between his pecs, the protruding arc of his ribcage, the sweet flatness of his abdomen. A bright flush traveled from Stiles’s cheeks all the way down to his chest. One of them made a low sound in his throat when Derek pushed the shirt a bit further back on Stiles’s shoulders, getting it out of the way and laying out a long, uninterrupted line of bare torso down to where it hit the belt and waistband of his jeans. Derek wanted to follow the line of hair from Stiles’s navel, itched to trace the sharp hipbones with his tongue, but they’d get there soon enough.

     “Oh God,” Stiles moaned, dragging out the second word as Derek skimmed his fingers down his sides, lightly enough that Stiles jerked and started to tremble more than he was already. On the way back up, Stiles arched his back in tandem with the movement of Derek’s hands. This probably counted as torture in someone’s books, Derek thought, because it was clear how much the slow tease was affecting Stiles—affecting them _both_ , because, hey, Derek’s own erection was positively aching in his jeans. Either one of them would’ve benefitted from speeding things up a bit, that was for damn sure, but Derek thought the greater payoff was worth his patience, and he couldn’t get enough of the feeling of Stiles shaking in his arms. 

     He pressed his lips into Stiles’s temple and spoke against his skin. “You have no idea how incredible you look right now,” he said, delighting internally as he pinched Stiles’s nipples and elicited an answering cry. Derek was sick of forever seeing those two small nubs poke through Stiles’s shirts; it was almost a relief to know they were exactly as sensitive as Derek had led himself to believe all this time. However, there might as well have been bruises forming on Derek’s legs from how hard Stiles was digging his fingers into his kneecaps. “Seriously, Stiles, you’re fucking killing me.”

     An indignant squawk tore itself from Stiles’s throat. “Killing _you_?” Derek continued to pull at his nipples and Stiles rubbed their faces together like a frantic feline, hissing a string of curses into Derek’s ear. “I’m gonna freaking jizz just from you doing that, you smug goddamned—” Derek cut him off, or rather let Stiles cut himself off with more garbled nonsense when Derek gave his left nipple a particularly firm yank.

     “You think you can?” About this, Derek was legitimately curious. It wouldn’t have surprised him to learn Stiles was a bit hyperactive in this way as well. Naturally there was nothing for it but to keep up the persistent tugging pressure of his fingertips, hard enough to make Stiles bite his lip to stifle a wail. 

     “I don’t think there’s a limit to how fine a hair trigger I can have at this point,” he forced out at last, managing to sound equal parts indignant and sexually frustrated. Then Derek pinched him again and he gasped, “You’re such an asshole.”

     “Should I stop?”

     “Like I said: asshole.”

     Chuckling to himself, Derek released Stiles’s nipples and rubbed them gently to stave off Stiles’s grunt of pain as the blood rushed back. By then Stiles was lolling his head against Derek’s shoulder and pushing up weakly with his pelvis as Derek moved to scrape his nails across the prominent lines of Stiles’s hipbones, delicate as ivory carvings. He indulged himself and trailed light touches over them next, reverent, and almost didn’t hear Stiles’s little mewl and broken “Derek, God—touch me.”

     Their lips were close when Derek turned his head and found Stiles had shifted to watch him, eyes slitted and dark whiskey-brown in the low light. Unable to resist, Derek kissed him and rode up against Stiles’s back a little to relieve the pressure on his own cock. He started to move in the direction of Stiles’s belt. 

     “That what you want? My hand on your dick?” he murmured. “You want me to bring you off right here?” 

     The moments the words were out, Derek both regretted and didn’t regret them. Stiles froze up for a second, mouth slack and stupid until he swallowed, then wet his lips in as maddening a gesture as Derek had ever seen. Derek figured he was probably taking the time to visualize the image Derek had evoked for him, letting himself hang off Derek’s words. Of course he would—he was a teenaged male—but Derek was the one left feeling a little sleazy for going there, his momentary lapse into the kind of lover he’d promised himself to keep far away from here and never really enjoyed playing, anyway.

     He was just bad at this, knowing where the line was. The men and women he sometimes went home with were the kinds of people who appreciated bad-porno dirty talk, who liked Derek to live up to the dark, predatory air projected and had learned to inhabit for lack of a more creative disguise, having grown into what was passed down too him at the too-tender age of sixteen. Stiles wasn’t anything like that, in either respect. Or at least Derek didn’t want him to be, ever, for himself as much as Stiles.

     Eventually Stiles found his voice. It sounded rough, destroyed, but Derek thought he caught a wry edge to it. “I want you to stop teasing the shit out of me,” he ground out. “Kind of more than I’ve wanted anything ever, at least until the next thing you do.” Derek smirked at the simple honesty in Stiles’s voice, then bit his lip when Stiles nuzzled into the hollow of his cheek in a way that frankly opened up something in Derek’s chest and made him ache. “Please?”

     The “please” did it, since as usual Derek couldn’t deny Stiles anything. Especially not looking so drugged and needy, stirring in Derek a confusing mix of protectiveness and what felt like subservience, almost a desperate desire to satisfy him. He crushed their mouths together and pressed one palm down against Stiles’s stomach to hold him still while his other hand made short work of Stiles’s belt, then the button and zip of his jeans. Opening his eyes, Derek saw the fat outline of Stiles’s cock beneath the black cotton of his boxers, fabric dark and damp around the head. 

     Not knowing why, the sight made Derek’s breathing hitch so sharply it was virtually a gasp; and Derek didn’t gasp, not ever, at least not to his recollection. Anyone who claimed otherwise was probably lying. But he wasn’t exaggerating about how amazing Stiles looked, because almost nothing Derek had seen before was that beautiful. For some reason the promise of holding Stiles’s cock in his hand just... brought it all home. Maybe it hadn’t seemed quite real until now, what Stiles was giving him, and Derek wanted to take a moment even if it felt like another second would kill him. 

     Stiles made a low, animal noise when Derek finally reached inside his briefs to withdraw his swollen cock, still pushing his face into Derek’s neck so he wouldn’t have to look. Derek understood—sometimes seeing was too much and you had to just feel. Still, it thrilled something inside him to think what the hell Stiles would be like when they actually progressed beyond a hand-job. Magnificent, probably; it’d either kill Derek or leave him in not much better shape. But they’d get there when they got there, and right now Derek could do this for Stiles. _He_ could look his fill, too, even if Stiles wouldn’t, and Derek released him momentarily to push Stiles’s jeans and underwear down his hips, bunching them up around midthigh until they wouldn’t go any farther.

     There was a surprising amount of hair between Stiles’s legs, dark and gorgeously masculine in its abundance. Then again, that could’ve been the wolf talking, but Derek shuddered as he skimmed his fingers over those lightly furred upper thighs and lower belly. The touch made Stiles’s erection jump, the slippery head brushing Derek’s wrist, and Stiles gave a little sob that was a pretty effective motivator for Derek to leave off his slow exploration and wrap his hand back around Stiles’s dick. He had a nice cock: dark pink, thick, proportionate to the size of his big hands and feet. Circumcised. Absolutely dripping precome everywhere.

     “You’re so wet,” Derek harshed out in a voice of pure approval. Prepared for Stiles’s reaction, he kept his arm firm around his waist and made one slow, tight upward stroke so he could spread that moisture around, getting Stiles good and slick. Unsurprisingly, Stiles’s hips tried to follow the path of Derek’s hand, and he shattered the quiet further with a desperate moan.

     “Is… is it okay?” he stuttered. The sound of his voice jolted Derek out of his daze, the hypnotic spell of Stiles’s pleasure—the smell, the look of him, everything.

     “Is what okay?”

     Stiles jutted his chin out in a way that, to Derek, looked strangely defiant and like he was bracing himself for something at the same time. “I dunno. This. My dick.” His jaw worked for a second before he added, “ _Me_.”

     The anxiety in that one word made Derek’s heart break a little. Exhaling angrily against Stiles’s neck, though he wasn’t sure who or what he was pissed off at, he squeezed Stiles to him and didn’t immediately release the pressure. Derek was no good at this kind of thing—knowing what to say to make people stop doubting themselves, but maybe a handful of nice words wasn’t what Stiles needed right now. He just—fuck, he needed to feel like someone wanted him the way everyone always needs to feel wanted. And Derek did. He just had to make Stiles believe it, too.

     Derek used his nose to nudge Stiles’s head around until he could fasten his mouth to the boy’s throat, trying to leave his appreciation and gratitude in a mark on his skin. He began to pump his fist in a deliberately steady rhythm that earned him a sharp buck of Stiles’s hips and a plaintive, bitten-back cry. 

     It would’ve been better with lube, but Derek didn’t plan on stopping and found there was more than enough precome leaking from Stiles’s dick to give him the traction he needed. They weren’t familiar enough with each other’s bodies yet for Derek to know what kind of touch Stiles liked, but he concentrated on giving him a tight, hard jerk that would drag the pleasure out without hopefully driving Stiles too crazy in the process. Not that Derek expected this to last long. He twisted his wrist a little at the top of every stroke, giving the head of Stiles’s cock that little bit extra, and each time his dick seemed to spit a bit more precome. Stiles was shuddering and writhing like he was in the best possible kind of agony. 

     “Look at yourself,” Derek ordered, splaying the fingers of his other hand wide across Stiles’s abdomen. 

     The thrashing movements of his body kept dragging him back and forth across Derek’s cock until Derek was panting almost as hard, pulling in breaths through his mouth and still feeling like there wasn’t enough air in the room. He knew exactly the moment Stiles did as he was told, because he hissed out Derek’s name like a plea and made one of those small whines that drove Derek to total fucking distraction. Good. He needed to see what Derek saw. Unexpectedly, Stiles let go of his knee and shot a hand out to clutch blindly behind him at Derek’s hair instead. Whether he meant to or not, Stiles’s grip meant Derek couldn’t look away from what his hands were doing either.

     It damn near took his breath away, if Derek thought he had enough left to steal.

     “If you were someone else watching this, you wouldn’t be able to stop thinking how gorgeous this boy is, how perfect—” Derek broke off in a gasp as a particularly hard judder of Stiles’s hips nailed him at a blindingly sweet angle, then continued to rub there until Derek’s eyes could’ve crossed. He was going to cream himself if this kept up. Stiles probably wasn’t even doing it on purpose, the brat. “You’d fantasize about him at night,” he continued, trying to get this all out, “you’d let him get under your skin. You’d be thinking how fucking lucky I am to be touching him right now.”

     At that, Stiles went suddenly still except for his back arching up, and then he let his head fall against Derek’s shoulder while he sucked in a noisy breath that seemed to catch at the back of his throat. He said, “Oh fuck,” very distinctly before his cock jerked in Derek’s fist and ejaculated, pumping rope after rope of white come onto his chest and Derek’s hand. 

     There was a surprising amount of it, leading Derek to wonder how Stiles had even held out this long, but whether from the sight before him or Stiles’s continuous grinding against him, the cruel pressure in Derek’s balls picked that moment to break. He wasn’t quite so dramatic about it, perhaps, but Derek yelped once and shuddered, feeling like he was piggybacking off the shockwaves still wracking Stiles’s body as he came down from his orgasm and Derek’s began. Mouth half-pressed into Stiles’s temple, he rode it out and held on tightly to the body in front of him until the tremors started to ease. It felt like an age came and went before either of them stopped shaking and gasping for air like two men who’d just fought their way to the surface from the bottom of a lake.

     “Oh my God,” Stiles forced out eventually, and Derek gave a tiny huff against his ear that was meant to pass for agreement. When he added, “I think I ruptured something,” Derek genuinely couldn’t hold back his chuckle and rubbed his face against Stiles’s hair, loving the friction against his stubble but also needing the distraction. Inexplicably, he was blushing. Derek had no fucking idea where it’d come from or how to make it stop.

     Sounding too polite for his own good, Stiles cleared his throat and asked, “Also, did you just come in your pants?” He tried to shift around to see Derek’s face and groaned a little, most likely at the pull of his muscles. It was enough to remind Derek he should also think about releasing the death-grip he had on Stiles’s body. 

     “Shut up, Stiles,” he grunted.

     “No, seriously—I need to know if that’s something that just happened. Because of reasons.” 

     Stiles continued to squirm around until Derek started to want to hold him immobile all over again. Teenage refractory periods were one thing, sure, but this didn’t even have anything to do with getting hard again; Derek simply had no idea how Stiles could go from making vowel sounds and stupid faces one moment to chattering away in the next, seeming, for all intents and purposes, like he hadn’t just had the snot jacked out of him. Derek’s ears were still ringing, for fuck’s sake. And he was fairly certain he hadn’t even come as hard as Stiles had. There ought to be a rule about talking too much before the come had a chance to dry.

     “You shouldn’t piss off the guy who still has a hand on your dick,” he suggested in as amiable a tone as he could manage. They really needed to not talk about this. “Don’t make me hurt you.”

     Finally prying himself loose of Derek’s grip, which they both knew meant Derek wasn’t trying all that hard to resist, Stiles grimaced and shifted onto his side. The face that peered up at Derek was still flushed and red, lips bitten raw and skin starting to show evidence of stubble burn. An involuntary shudder raced through Derek that made him rethink his earlier stance on refractory times. He may not have felt like talking, but one more glimpse of Stiles’s debauched self and he’d be ready to kiss, bite, or otherwise fuck that affectionately taunting smirk right off his mouth. 

     “If what we just did is your idea of hurting me,” said Stiles, “then I think we better have a talk about you moving in so we can do that all. The fucking. Time.”

     He ended up on his back underneath Derek without either of them quite realizing how he got there until it happened. The thought occurred to him—vaguely, as these things do—that he was ruining his shirt by pressing his body against Stiles’s sweaty and come-splattered torso, but words could not begin to describe how much he didn’t give a shit. The rest of his wardrobe was a mess of clothing that was ripped, bloodied, or mangled in other ways; it was time Derek ruined a shirt doing something _fun_. Right now that included watching Stiles’s eyes go round and dark with lust beneath him, mouth falling open just _so_ as he started to squirm up against Derek all over again. Destroyed shirt or no, however, it seemed a good time to get the offending garment off him, wrestling it up and off so Derek could press their bare chests together. It was almost impossibly good, a million times better than Derek had dreamed it being. 

     “When do you expect you’ll be ready to make ‘all the fucking time’ happen?” he asked, hands going to Stiles’s wrists to pin them against the cushion. “Ten minutes from now? An hour?”

     Stiles quickly got the gist of this game, if it could be called that, and strained against Derek’s grip just enough to make him growl in playful warning. Giving up the attempt, Stiles let his legs fall open instead so that Derek was cradled neatly between them. It wasn’t totally effective since he still had his jeans and underwear caught up around his thighs, but they’d get to that, maybe as soon as Stiles stopped trying to rub their pelvises together like he was doing. Derek kind of had to admire how he took to sex like a duck to water.

     “Whatcha doing for the rest of the night?” Stiles asked sweetly, the innocence of his tone belied by the evil, absolutely fucking evil way his tongue poked out to wet his lips.

     Derek’s answer was to kiss him, which wasn’t exactly the most original response ever, but did well enough to shut Stiles up. Shut him up so well, in fact, that there were no more questions for a long time after that.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles learns there are benefits to having a gay BFF.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As ever, my thanks go out to akadougal, blue_fjords, and qthelights for their fantastic work as betas and fore tirelessly cheerleading me on. This chapter is rated PG.

     Not that Stiles _meant_ to be sneaky or anything, but sometimes he just couldn’t help it if he happened to notice the small details—technicalities—that most other people tended to overlook. His dad said it was this kind of quality that would probably incline Stiles to go into the legal profession and break his old man’s heart—typical cop bias, that—but Stiles liked to think he used his powers for good and not evil. Most of the time.

     So when Derek specifically told him not to mention their little agreement to the rest of the pack, Stiles simultaneously understood what he was being asked not to do and what he _wasn’t_ being asked not to do. Namely that anyone outside of the pack was beyond Derek’s jurisdiction and therefore totally, _totally_ kosher. 

     Like Danny.

     In all fairness, it happened completely by accident, and not the fake kind either, where Stiles spent hours carefully orchestrating the best way to run into someone and then followed it through with the biggest degree of nonchalance he could muster or a casual “Fancy meeting _you_ here.” No, sometimes coincidences just happened, especially in a town the size of Beacon Hills, and in this case Stiles was caught, red-handed, doing something he would’ve much preferred no one else know about.

     Namely, buying underwear.

     Stiles had been doing a lot of thinking since the weekend—almost nothing but, considering he hadn’t seen Derek at all yesterday—and in between bouts of shocked, giddy disbelief that any of that had even _happened_ , oh my God, he found himself falling into an awful downward spiral of fear and insecurity that seemed to have grown exponentially since Saturday, rather than fading into the background the way Stiles had hoped. 

     It was true that sex, if you could call a few hours of mutual masturbation “sex,” was awesome and empowering and so fucking exciting that Stiles could scarcely keep the grin off his face in his frequent moments of remembering, but it was also strangely terrifying in ways Stiles both had and had not anticipated, and remarkably simple in others. 

     For one thing, he wasn’t as caught up in worrying about what to do as he thought he might be. It helped that Derek was an amazing teacher, which was less surprising to Stiles the more he thought about it; the interceding years had changed him into not just a good Alpha, but a great one, and he knew how to challenge, instruct, and encourage Stiles in his progress as well as he did any of his wolves. He wasn’t so great at the praising aspect, but the cool thing about sex, as Stiles was discovering, was that if you did the right thing, the other person kind of wound up showing their approval whether they intended to or not.

     What was less expected was how damn much Stiles wanted to _please_ Derek. Sexually, yeah, that was obvious, because even if this was technically about Stiles learning a few things, he couldn’t switch off the part of him that cared whether other people were also enjoying themselves, feeling good. But in the most basic way possible, Stiles wanted to be pleasing to Derek, period, wanted Derek to look at him and feel like, maybe, Stiles was someone he might desire in an alternate universe where they were different people and the rules didn’t matter. He hadn’t spent a lot of time examining why that was, not if they were going to go right back to being buddies after this and it ceased to matter, but the end result was the same no matter how you sliced it: Stiles had to step up his game.

     The thought struck him while dressing on Sunday morning, preparing to face a day of helping out around the Sheriff’s office according to the terms of his unofficial part-time employment: thanks to Lydia, he now had a wardrobe that actually came pretty close to kicking ass, but her tutelage hadn’t extended to his unmentionables (though why it was okay for him to trail after her for seemingly hours while she decimated the racks of Victoria’s Secret, he would never know). As a result, once the outer layer of clothes came off there was absolutely nothing impressive going on underneath. By which he meant all his underwear looked very much like that of a teenage boy’s and nothing like the tight, sexy numbers that, to Stiles, had become synonymous with A&F catalogues and gay porn. 

     While it was possible Derek would find the boxers with the mini Chewbaccas on them endearing, that’s not exactly what Stiles was going for. He already felt like he was working with a disadvantage when he compared his body to Derek’s, feeling skinny and pasty where Derek was muscular and even-skinned as a marble statue. That’s not at all how Derek had made him feel on Saturday, but Stiles really didn’t need to make himself look more like a scrawny twerp by dressing in the adolescent male equivalent of stretchy granny panties.

     This was an idiosyncrasy of the highest order and Stiles knew it, but one way or another he found himself at Macy’s the following day after track practice, perusing racks of Calvin Klein underwear when a tentative voice said, “Stiles?”

     Stiles jumped and immediately clutched the periwinkle-blue trunks he was holding to his chest, then whirled around to find Danny standing there holding a Starbuck’s cup and an armload of clothes to try on or buy.

     “Danny… hey!” Stiles squeaked, flushing inexplicably red even though he had no reason to be ashamed of buying underwear. Everyone did it. Hell, even Derek did it, though Stiles had learned on Saturday he was more of an underwear-optional kind of guy. The thought just made him blush harder as he stammered out, “Doing some, er… shopping?”

     Well used to Stiles’s quirks by now, Danny nodded and smiled. “Kind of. My parents made me take my little brother shopping for new clothes and I’m just killing time until he’s done. He’s with Jackson now picking stuff out.” Danny’s expression turned rueful. “J has a better eye for clothes than I do.”

     Eyes widening, Stiles craned his neck to look around like he might spot Jackson lurking behind a shelf of packaged jock straps. “Jackson’s _here_?”

     Danny’s eyes narrowed. “Uh, yeah. He and Shay are upstairs, I think.”

     Nodding, Stiles realized he probably looked more like a bobblehead version of himself than a human being, and willed himself to relax. “Cool, cool. Your brother’s a freshman now, right?”

     “Yeah. Doesn’t want me around while he’s doing his thing, but he’s perfectly content to let me pay with our dad’s credit card.” Although Danny’s tone was fond and affectionately exasperated, Stiles absolutely didn’t miss the moment the other man’s focus zeroed in on the underwear Stiles was still gripping like a life raft. “Doing some shopping yourself, I see.” His gaze shifted back to Stiles’s face and his eyebrows lifted in a way that spelled nothing but trouble. “You never really struck me as a Calvin Klein guy, no offense.”

      _Deflect, deflect!_ “Well, you did just say Jackson’s the one with the good fashion sense, right?” Stiles laughed a bit too loudly at his own jab.

     “Sure,” Danny answered smoothly, looking no less sly, “but of the two of us, I think it’s fair to say Jackson spends a bit less time thinking about what men are wearing _under_ their designer jeans.”

     Probably because he spent so much time around Derek, Stiles knew how to recognize when someone was digging his heels in about something, and right now Danny was definitely choosing not to let this go. Stiles couldn’t fathom why, because Danny had never shown much more than a polite interest in his life before, at least not outside of Stiles’s ties to Jackson; but he also knew that, if he had ever longed for the opportunity to confide in the one person in his social circle who shared Stiles’s sexual leanings, he was being given one now. Still, he waffled for a moment, weighing the potential pros and cons of staying mum versus spilling the beans.

     On one hand, Danny knew about the werewolves because he was a) not stupid, b) Jackson’s best friend, and c) not stupid, and that certainly made the sharing of certain details much easier, but on the other hand, he wasn’t pack. That was Danny’s choice and probably the right one, considering most people had a weak stomach for having their lives threatened on a weekly basis; and he was still good for moral support or a knowing look when Stiles, Scott, or Jackson turned up to school looking eight different kinds of exhausted. But at the end of the day, he and the pack went their separate ways. While to an outside observer this might seem like a point _against_ Danny, because he was less loyal to the needs of the pack, Stiles appreciated that it was usually a lot harder to keep secrets from people you cared about than people you didn’t. Plus Danny fell well outside of Derek’s decree not to tell anyone in the pack about their little assignations.

     Assignation. That was a word Stiles had never had the opportunity to use in a sentence before, much less in reference to himself. Internally he thrilled a little.

     “Okay, so maybe I need your help,” he admitted. Which was true. Stiles had spent the last fifteen minutes trying to figure out the difference between trunks and boxer briefs.

     At that, Danny immediately lifted an eyebrow, staring down at Stiles with an expression of wariness in his dark eyes. “Help with what?” he asked. “Is this gonna be another law-breaking thing? My record has to be completely clear if I plan to go to a good college. MIT has a pretty firm policy against allowing convicted hackers into their school, and they can still revoke my acceptance.”

     Stiles scoffed at the impossibility of something like that. “What? No! I don’t know why you’d immediately go there.” Danny’s eyebrows remained skeptical and Stiles gave an anxious wave of his hands. “Well, I know you hate me asking you about gay stuff—”

     “Can you stop calling it that?”

     “—gay bidness, then, but _you_ approached _me_ , here, and I’m a relatively new inductee to the club.” Awkward admission was awkward. 

     However, Danny didn’t look all that surprised by Stiles coming out to him, which led Stiles to wonder whether there was anyone left in Beacon Hills who thought he was straight. Even his dad probably had a strong inkling since Stiles started dressing better. He didn’t own scarves or a murse or sing Lady Gaga anthems in the hallways at school, but his jeans were definitely tight enough that even Stiles caught himself checking out his own ass in mirrors and store windows, and he’d yet to actually kiss a girl. The chances of him taking a date to prom were pretty much zilch, and everyone—Danny included—seemed to know it. Since kissing Derek was way more fun, anyway, Stiles found himself caring less and less by the day that he was slowly tipping the scales from bi to all-out flaming.

     “Are there people giving you a hard time?” Danny asked, softening. His expression changed to one of concern and he leaned a bit farther into Stiles’s personal space, keeping his voice low. “I thought the last couple years were going better for you.”

     The assumption that Stiles was getting bullied over his sexuality and that Danny would worry about his wellbeing both troubled and touched him. Then again, he and Stiles weren’t exactly close, and maybe gay dudes didn’t tend to turn to each other about “gay business” unless there was something seriously amiss. Like a skinny jeans shortage. Stiles supposed gay bashing also qualified, or else STDs. 

     Realizing where Danny’s mind might go next, Stiles’s mouth fell open and he rushed to nip that right in the bud. “I don’t need help with anything like that. And I don’t have, like… herpes or anything, in case you were wondering.” 

     “Uh… thanks for clearing that up, Stiles.” Just like that, Danny went back to looking suspicious. His eyes flickered back to the package of underwear in Stiles’s hands. “Then what’s this about?”

     “Well.” Stiles still hadn’t come up with a satisfactory way to phrase the nebulous mass of excitement and fear that’d been bubbling up inside him. “The last thing you probably want is to have to be anyone’s fairy godmother or anything—hah, get it?—but I thought I should start looking for ways to possibly… make myself more attractive to other men.” One guy, specifically. But that was on a need-to-know basis.

     An amused smile curled Danny’s lips, and Stiles figured he should be grateful his fairy pun went unacknowledged. “You planning to hit the clubs, dude? Meet some guys?”

     Stiles shifted from foot to foot and deliberated how much information he should share. It wasn’t news to him that he had a big mouth—Stiles was more than aware of his tendency to spill his guts the second he started talking. Danny wasn’t untrustworthy, and Stiles didn’t feel particularly guilty for abusing the technicalities of Derek’s instruction not to say anything, but when faced with the prospect talking to someone about their arrangement out loud, Stiles felt himself cowed by a feeling remarkably like shyness.

     “I’m not planning to hit anything,” he said uncomfortably, “and I kind of already... met someone.”

     He saw the moment Danny’s face brightened and he seemed to transform into a veritable Perez Hilton of the BHHS gossip mill. Sure enough, Danny leaned in a little closer and his eyes took on a conspiratorial gleam. “Stiles, do you mean to tell me you’re dating someone? Who?”

     “Keep your voice down!” he snapped, even though Danny had whispered. Stiles waved his hands dramatically and managed to catch the edge of Danny’s sweater with one, trying to convey how very badly this needed to remain secret. “You said Jackson was around here somewhere, dude.”

     Danny scoffed and wrenched his arm back, looking at Stiles like he’d sprouted a second head. “Oh, come on. Like Jackson could care less who you’re—” He suddenly stopped and made a face, then shrugged. “Okay, you have a point. Jackson’s a worse gossip than Lydia.”

     Without warning, Danny shoved his coffee and the clothes he was holding into Stiles’s arms, almost making Stiles drop the whole lot in surprise. While he was struggling to get a handle on everything, Danny got his phone out and made a call. “Hey, Jackson?” he said after a few seconds. “It’s me. Do you mind hanging out with Shay for a bit? I ran into a friend and we’re going to grab a coffee. Just text me when Shay’s ready to leave and I’ll come back to pay for everything.” 

     Not waiting for a response, because Danny was clearly just as bossy as his best friend when he wanted to be, he swiped a thumb across the screen of his phone to end the call and turned back to Stiles.

     “That gives us about two hours, knowing Jackson. He’ll make Shay try on everything.” Danny gave Stiles a smile that was pure evil. And all this time he’d been operating under the impression that Danny was the _nice_ one. “I want details, Stilinski. All of them.”

     

     +

     

     “I thought we were going for coffee?” 

     Stiles held his Macy’s bags to his chest protectively—Danny had made him buy a few things before leaving, and apparently trunks were the way to go after all—as he was steered first out of the store, then out of the mall entirely.

     “The last thing you need is more coffee,” Danny said dismissively, and Stiles couldn’t really argue with that; but he’d had his heart set on a cookie-crumble Frappuccino. Nevertheless, he let himself be dragged across the parking lot to Danny’s car. “Get in. We have just enough time for me to show you where the real goods are before Jackson stops making Shay try on accessories. And you need all the help you can get.”

     As it turned out, the conversation about Derek had been really, really short. While shoving underwear in various cuts and colours at Stiles in Macy’s, he’d simply asked, “What does Derek make of you dating someone? Does he know?” to which Stiles had first answered, with the appropriate air quotes, “Um, well, Derek knows because it _is_ Derek, and we aren’t exactly ‘dating’,” and then, “Why the hell would he make something of it even if I were dating someone else?”

     With an expression that could only be described as _Are you slow?_ Danny had paused and gradually turned to face Stiles. “I’m not surprised,” he said, “and that’s pretty much all the answer you need to your second question.”

     Stiles had guppy-mouthed at him for a few seconds, but then Danny was off perusing another rack of underwear before Stiles could think of a good response to that.

     As he threw his shopping bag into the back seat of Danny’s car, those words were still bothering him for reasons Stiles had yet to pinpoint. He could, however, take issue with the outright statement that Stiles was in desperate need of help, even if it was pretty much true. “I know I’m not David Beckham,” he began, “but I kind of resent the implication that Derek’s slumming it by associating with me.”

     Danny shut the driver’s side door behind himself and reached for the seatbelt. Even without facing Stiles, the roll of his eyes was apparent. “Dude. Derek gives _me_ an inferiority complex, and I’m actually bigger than him.” He shook his head, slid the key into the ignition, and started the car. “If I had to get naked in front of that guy, I’d want to use every freaking weapon in my arsenal to make me feel that much sexier around him. I never said it’s because you aren’t hot.”

     Sometimes Stiles understood the things people said in the wrong order, because the first thing he took away from that was, “AHA! You _do_ think I’m attractive!” closely followed by, “Do you still have a thing for Derek?”

     Grunting, Danny navigated the Yaris out of the parking lot and onto the main road. Stiles had no idea where he was taking them. Eyes still on his driving, eventually Danny said, “Before you start getting all possessive, I’ve never ‘had a thing’ for Derek. Finding him attractive and having feelings for him are two totally different things. You should know that. Then again, you _did_ trail after Lydia like a puppy for ten years, so maybe you don’t.”

     “First of all, I’m not jealous. Secondly, that’s your best friend’s future wife you’re talking about, man,” Stiles answered defensively, happy to deflect the comment away from himself. 

     “Yeah, and the only reason Jackson and Lydia work as a couple is because they cancel out each other’s bitchiness.” Danny flicked a conspiratorial smile in Stiles’s direction, which Stiles had to return despite himself. “So you gotta tell me, what made you and Derek finally stop dancing around each other? It’s been a long time coming.”

     The smile abruptly disappeared from Stiles’s face. “A long time—what?” His throat tried to close up on him for a second at what Danny seemed to be saying. “We haven’t been dancing around anything, and nothing’s been a long time coming. Derek’s my best friend.” The word—“best,” of course, not “friend”—slipped out before Stiles registered what he’d said.

     “I thought _Scott_ is your best friend?” Danny challenged, intuitive as ever.

     “He is,” Stiles said automatically. “Scott’s, like… my brother. He’ll always be my number one, but he’s also got Allison now. The dynamic isn’t the same as it was when we were twelve. He tells her things he doesn’t necessarily tell me, and I guess in the last couple years I’ve started telling Derek stuff I don’t always feel like talking about with Scott. He’s easy to talk to.”

     Derisive laughter filled the car, and Stiles scowled as Danny’s shoulders shook. “As if,” Danny snorted. “I may not be a werewolf, but I’ve met the guy. The only reason you find him easy to talk to is because he’s your Allison. Or you’re his. Whatever.” 

     “That’s not what I’m saying at all. That’s not how it is.” Frustrated and at a loss for a better way to explain it, Stiles turned in his seat and grabbed the Macy’s bag, then started pawing through his loot. Jesus, no wonder he never bothered to pay much attention to what underwear he bought before this—shit was expensive, and he’d barely looked at half of what Danny picked out. His fingers unearthed a scrap of fabric that was definitely not among the typical colours Stiles liked to wear. “Wait a minute, did you make me buy _pink_ underwear?”

     “That’s not pink, it’s salmon,” Danny corrected without batting an eyelash. His gaze remained fixed on the road. “They look great on. My ex used to have the same pair and he’s pale like you. And anyway, you wanted my help, right? Trust me on this.”

     Making a face, Stiles held up the pink—“salmon” his ass—scrap of fabric and turned it over. It had white piping around the edges and the Y-front that reminded him of the blue-is-for-boys underoos he used to wear as a tyke. Maybe that was part of the appeal? Stiles knew all about twinks and how the more boyish they looked, the better. He tried to picture himself trussed up like that and gave a shiver; the image felt totally foreign to his mind. But he supposed that was the whole point: becoming someone new. 

     For years he’d listened to his friends talk about how losing their virginity wasn’t really a big deal, how they still felt like themselves after, but Stiles kind of begged to differ. Sure, he remained a virgin in a lot of ways, having not even made it to third base yet, but already he was having a hard time seeing himself as the same guy who’d looked at himself in the mirror on Saturday morning. When Derek had touched him that night—that same night—and made Stiles watch everything those sure, steady hands did as they took him apart, he had felt like he was looking at someone else entirely, someone he wouldn’t in a million years have identified as “Stiles.” 

     There was a good chance Danny knew exactly what that felt like. He’d always been stoic and good-natured, but Stiles seemed to remember him as a lot less confident before he came out in freshman year. So yeah, maybe Stiles _should_ trust him. He sighed and dropped the pink underwear back in the bag, then pulled out another pair in the exact same style, except that they were a punchy turquoise. 

     He cocked an eyebrow, which apparently Danny noticed because the other man chuckled and repeated, “ _Definitely_ trust me.”

     “I don’t know how I feel about the fact that you’re obviously picturing me in these,” Stiles muttered.

     “What you really ought to be asking yourself is how much you must like this guy if you’re going to these lengths just to impress him.”

     “You keep saying shit like that, and I keep telling you that’s not what this is.”

     Danny shrugged and said, “Then tell me how it is. You’ve made it pretty clear that you and Derek are involved and want help looking sexy for his benefit, except in the next breath you tell me you’re not dating and supposedly no more than friends.”

     Crap. This was pretty much what Stiles had worried might happen if he pulled someone else into this, but it’d occurred to him last night in the shower that he was in further over his head—way over—than he’d originally anticipated being. While it brought him a measure of comfort that Danny’s first reaction was curiosity and not the urge to laugh in Stiles’s face, it didn’t make the prospect of having to talk about this stuff out loud any less scary.

     Arms folded, Stiles chewed the inside of his cheek and looked out the window. “Okay, well, for lack of a better name, I guess we’re friends with benefits.” That sounded wrong and kind of like it didn’t do him and Derek enough justice, but Stiles truly couldn’t think of a better way to put it. They were friends, and Stiles had started to experience some of the benefits of their arrangement for real on Saturday. And then some. However, it was the “and then some” that was causing his mental stumbling-block, and he hated that Danny was right even without knowing half the details of what had happened. What Derek had done. Fuck, what Derek had _said_. 

     He hesitated for a long, long moment over how much more he should confess. From the disbelieving sound Danny made, it was pretty clear he was expecting more from Stiles, too. God, he was going to tell the whole freaking story, wasn’t he? Were Stiles’s self-preservation instincts really that crappy?

     “You can never repeat what I’m going to tell you next. Not even to Jackson. Fuck, _especially_ not to Jackson, got it?”

     “Sounds serious,” Danny murmured. “As long as it’s nothing that will get me, Jackson, or anyone else in shit—or worse—I have no problem keeping your secrets. That’s the deal.”

     “The only person this could get into shit is me, and maybe Derek,” Stiles assured him. “It’s nothing that could hurt anyone, but Jackson and the others… the pack, I mean… Derek and I pretty much agreed this is something they’d be pissed about, if they knew. So we decided to stay quiet about it for now.” He swallowed nervously but went all in. “I asked Derek to be my first.”

     “Your first.”

     “Yeah, you know. Take my virginity.” God, it sounded stupider every time Stiles said it.

     “I know what ‘be my first’ means,” Danny deadpanned. It was almost, _almost_ satisfying to see that his eyes had gone pretty large in his face, even if he was still looking more at where they were going than at Stiles. (Where _were_ they going, anyway? Stiles still had yet to figure that out.) “I just wanted to be sure I heard you right.”

     “Well, you did.” Stiles drummed his fingers against the armrest on the door and wished the flush he could feel burning his cheeks would go away. “I didn’t want to ship out to college still a virgin, and Derek’s someone I trust. It sounds pathetic now when I’m talking to you about it, but it seemed like a good idea at the time.”

     “Very practical of you,” Danny agreed, “not to mention ballsy. And clever, asking the hottest guy in town to pop your cherry. What’s a little more surprising is that Derek agreed. But then again, not. Like I said.” Not only did Danny not seem surprised by Stiles’s revelation, he didn’t appear to have more to say on the subject. Nor did he give Stiles the opportunity to object to what he’d said, seeming to enjoy letting Stiles pick up the whole cryptic-as-fuck routine he was laying down. He turned into the driveway of a strip mall Stiles didn’t think he’d ever been to in his eighteen years of living in Beacon Hills. “We’re here.”

     “Where is here?” Stiles asked, peering at the various storefronts. There was a copy place, a shady-looking coffee joint, a couple empty units, and an even shadier-looking clothing store with cheap plastic mannequins in the window wearing dresses no one Stiles knew would ever be caught dead in. Except maybe those drag queens he’d picked up that one time at Jungle.

     “Here is Beacon Hill’s best-kept secret,” Danny said ominously. He pulled into a parking space and then turned off the car. Unbuckling his seatbelt, he waggled his eyebrows at Stiles in a very un-Danny-like way before getting out of the car. Typically, he didn’t wait for Stiles to respond.

     Frowning in confusion, Stiles practically fell out of the passenger side in his haste to follow. Danny clicked the remote locks after him.

     To Stiles’s great horror, Danny walked straight into the store with the drag queen clothing and nodded at the woman—who was, surprise surprise, a drag queen—behind the front counter.

     “Danny!” she exclaimed, breaking out in a wide smile. “What brings you out to my neck of the woods? And you brought a friend!” She gave such emphasis to the word “friend” that there was no doubt her interest was piqued.

     Stiles had to admit she was rather outrageously attractive, tall and angular and with mocha skin quite similar to Danny’s. Her makeup was pretty understated compared to what Stiles had come to associate with drag, but then again, she also had on a wig of long, seafoam-coloured curls and a sparkly tiara. Where her eyebrows should’ve been was gold leaf applied to look like flames. When she leaned forward against the countertop she displayed cleavage that was, to Stiles’s surprise, real. Or at least surgically enhanced. 

     Stiles lifted a hand and waved. “Hey.”

     “This is Stiles,” Danny said, gesturing. “Stiles, this is Heaven Leigh Heights.”

     “Nice to meet you, Stiles. And it’s just Heaven to you.” She winked. “Danny is one of my favourite customers, and I’m always happy when he brings his friends to see me. So if you need any second opinions as you’re trying things on, just let me know.”

     Danny save a soft laugh and rolled his eyes at Stiles in such a way that indicated it was perfectly normal for Heaven to hit on everyone and anyone who was reasonably attractive that stepped foot in her store. “Heaven runs this place,” he said and, smirking, added, “ _Big_ fan of Jackson’s.”

     “Oh… cool.” Having not gotten a good look around yet, Stiles was at a loss for anything better to say. 

     Heaven’s smile was so curiously assessing, raking over him like a slab of meat, that Stiles blushed and skittered his gaze away to take in the rest of the shop. There was plenty more clothing of the sort he’d seen through the window, plus various types of what he could only describe as stripper shoes displayed on the wall. But as he continued to glance around, he saw there were also several racks of men’s underwear towards the back of the store, and nothing of the sort you’d ever find in Macy’s or Sears. There were the requisite sparkly thongs and jocks, but the rest looked more or less appropriate for everyday wear. In fact, he thought he recognized a couple styles from some of the porn vids he’d downloaded recently. Understanding dawned, and Danny smiled when he recognized the moment it did so.

     “Like I said, Beacon Hill’s best-kept secret,” Danny said, eyes bright like a kid’s on Christmas morning. He walked over to a rack of colourful trunks and lifted up a pair almost reverently. “Only place in town that sells Andrew Christian stuff.”

     “I… have no idea who that is,” Stiles answered. There was an offended-sounded scoff from behind Heaven’s counter.

     Danny flashed her an apologetic smile, and Stiles had a creeping suspicion he was about to get schooled. “Then prepare to be converted. I hope you’ve been saving up your pennies, because if you want Derek to flip, this will make him fucking _flip_.”

 

+

 

     In under an hour, Danny managed to decimate Stiles’s bank balance and clear Heaven out of half her stock in men’s underwear—at least the kind normal people wore, and not the cast of _Magic Mike_. He was still trying to get over the fact that both Danny and Heaven had managed to coax him out of the dressing room as he tried each new pair on. Stiles had obeyed, despite feeling more exposed than he’d ever felt before in his life, and that included Derek slowly stripping his clothing off piece by piece on Saturday night. 

     The first pair he tried had, at first glance, looked reassuringly comfortable: cotton, for one thing, a thin grey-striped pattern with a pale yellow waistband. But when Stiles pulled them on and pushed back the dressing-room curtain, feeling harassed by Heaven’s impatient entreaties for him to come out, he took one look in the mirror and wanted to dive back inside. They were little better than booty shorts, for Chrissakes. Forget booty shorts—they were practically a low-slung belt, cut so far down on Stiles’s hips that he immediately started tugging his T-shirt down in a surprise fit of modesty. Heaven simply slapped his hands away and lifted the shirt halfway up his torso so she could get a better look. 

     Stiles tried not to feel sickeningly objectified by her approving murmurs, but Heaven gave him a look from under her (very long, very false) eyelashes, patted him on the stomach, and said, “Oh honey, you have _nothing_ to be embarrassed about,” apparently noticing the way Stiles had awkwardly knocked his knees together and was blushing from the neck up.

     Next came a harmless-looking pair of white trunks with a lime-green waistband and ANDREW CHRISTIAN stitched across it—but no, scratch that, they had a freaking pouch. A _pouch_. A basket for his… basket. When he confronted himself in the mirror, his mouth gaped open in dismay. Even Stiles thought it was one of the most obscene things he’d ever seen, and that included all the hentai he’d watched. Resisting the urge to cover himself with his hands, Stiles desperately tried to convince himself he couldn’t see a visible outline of his dick. Nope. The size of it was bad enough, especially with onlookers present. He always assumed that when a guy’s junk stuck out that much in porn, it was because they were naturally better endowed, but clearly packaging was everything. _Everything_. Stiles would’ve worried about false advertising if Derek hadn’t already seen him naked. 

     But… as he turned around to inspect himself, reluctantly holding his shirt out of the way, he did have to admit they were ridiculously comfortable, as underwear went. Roomy in all the right places and tight everywhere else, making Stiles glad he ran five miles a day. He also started to understand why the name Andrew Christian carried such significance around here.

     There’d been a couple catcalls from Heaven over those, and Danny whistled and said, “Derek’s a lucky man,” like that was a thing that happened in Stiles’s life now. It violated more rules of the locker room than he knew how to count, and he was suddenly really glad he and Danny were no longer on the lacrosse team together. He didn’t know if he could still make eye contact after he’d gone and paraded himself around in front of the other boy in various and increasingly skimpier styles of underwear. 

     However, he’d drawn the line, fucking drawn it, when Heaven held up a jock strap for his consideration. And when she slyly said, “Maybe we should get this man of yours in here to try some stuff on,” Stiles squeaked and had to disappear back into the dressing room before he concentrated too hard on that mental picture and started filling out the pouch for realsies.

     For his part, Danny seemed pretty unperturbed by the whole thing, and Stiles was beginning to re-evaluate whether this wasn’t normal behaviour for gay BFFs after all. Not that they were gay BFFs or anything, because Jackson had a pretty ironclad monopoly on Danny’s attention. Danny seemed to know it, too, based on how quickly he drove them back to the mall; Jackson had called to complain that Shay refused to try on any more jeans, and thus had brought Danny and Stiles’s own shopping expedition to an abrupt halt. Stiles’s wallet would probably thank Jackson for that later, and he was fairly sure he now owned enough underwear to last him weeks without doing laundry. Shit, he was going to have to figure out a way to hide these in his drawers without his dad finding them, and it looked like he would be washing his underwear separately from now on. 

     “So…” Danny began, the first thing either of them had said in a few minutes. “I guess I never asked you exactly how far you’ve even gone with Derek at this point. Or what it’s like.”

     Truth to tell, that was the question Stiles had been dreading ever since he ran into Danny at the mall. If he thought it was hard to even think about what he and Derek had done on Saturday night without his mouth going dry and his pants getting tight in the crotch almost immediately, thinking and talking about it at the same time seemed almost impossible.

     “We haven’t gone all that far,” Stiles admitted quietly. “Pretty much just, uh… jerked each other off. There’s probably racier stuff than that on Showtime after midnight.” But considering how overwhelmed he still was days later, it felt like more. Objectively speaking, they hadn’t gone any further than some of his friends managed when still in grade school. Hand-jobs counted as little better than amateur hour by anyone else’s standards, though to Stiles, having Derek touch him like that had felt anything but amateur _or_ standard. “But it was like…”

     “That good, huh?” Danny asked when Stiles didn’t finish his thought. His voice sounded impressed, not mocking. “Wow.”

     “I didn’t even say anything,” Stiles objected, embarrassed and not sure why.

     “You didn’t have to. Your voice got all floaty and I can tell by your expression that you’re thinking about it.” Danny hesitated. “I can’t even imagine what Derek would be like in bed. Hot, obviously, but he doesn’t seem like he’d be very… gentle. Or patient. I hear from Jackson all the time what a slave driver he is with the other wolves. Hell, he was scary as fuck when I still thought he was your cousin Miguel.”

     Stiles shook his head. “All bark and no bite, man. I mean, he’ll properly fuck someone up if they threaten his pack, but when he’s around the rest of us it’s a front and nothing else. Derek takes a while to warm up to anyone.” He didn’t want to say much more than that, since there was a pretty fine line separating common knowledge from what Derek would consider a violation of privacy. “I think he knew I was nervous and unsure of myself and stuff. Took his time, made sure I was doing okay. And he said…” Stiles bit back the words before they could slip out.

     “Said what?” Danny prompted, a little sharply. Nothing got past this guy; sometimes talking to him felt like facing down one of the judges of the Inquisition.

     Stiles swallowed and then it all came pouring out, a jumble of emotion he’d been struggling to interpret—and when that didn’t work, ignore—for days. “I was a little insecure about how I look, right, and he said something like, ‘If you were someone else watching this, you wouldn’t be able to stop thinking how gorgeous this kid is. You’d be thinking how lucky I am to be touching him right now.’” At first he thought he hadn’t quite absorbed Derek’s little speech, lost and washed away when the haze of sex and arousal eventually faded, but the words had more or less come back to him before the end of the weekend, clear enough in memory that Stiles had lain awake for hours in a state of confused disbelief that actually brought a physical pain to his chest.

     Danny was quiet for a really long time; they made it the rest of the way back to the mall and he pulled into the very same spot where he’d parked before. Then he said, “Stiles, that’s, like—” and broke off into more uneasy silence.

     “What?”

     “Nothing.” Danny sighed. “What’re you going to do when summer’s over and you move?”

     The question made Stiles frown. Hadn’t they covered that already? “Then life goes back to business as usual,” he answered. “Summer lovin’, right? The fun has to end sometime. We both know the score here. I’ll go to Berkeley and Derek will go back to the Beacon Hills version of normal. We stay friends and maybe joke about my extended dry spell in a few years. That’s about it.”

     “Sounds like you’ve got it all pretty much figured out,” said Danny. The eyes he turned on Stiles were filled with something that didn’t quite match his voice, and a small crease stubbornly clung between his eyebrows. 

     Stiles was about to reply, but a sudden knock sounded against the side of the car and made them both jump. Turning, Stiles saw it was Jackson and Danny’s little brother, both of them holding multiple shopping bags each. For a teenaged boy who, as far as Stiles knew, was straight, Shay was looking pretty pleased with himself and touting his bags like he’d just won the lottery.

     “Dude,” Jackson said when Danny rolled down his window. “Where the hell did you go?” Flicking his eyes towards Stiles, he added, “Stilinski? Is this who you meant when you said you ran into a friend?”

     Looking at Jackson with the bitchface he’d clearly perfected after years of friendship, Danny said, “Yeah. Something came up. I told you I had to take off for a bit.” Seemingly done with the conversation, he gestured at Shay’s bags and asked, “What’s all this? You were supposed to call me so I could come pay for everything.”

     “Early birthday present for my boy,” Jackson answered offhandedly, then ruffled Shay’s hair. He received an indignant squawk in return as Shay batted the hand away. Stiles, who’d been holding himself tensely in anticipation of Jackson’s curiosity, stiffened further when Jackson wouldn’t be deterred from questioning his presence in the car. “Stilinski, why do you smell weird?”

     Stiles sighed. He still had no idea what Derek’s methods were for “burying a scent,” but disguising the Alpha’s smell on his own skin had involved mixing a liberal amount of Mountain Ash into his body wash when he showered. Scott had responded in much the same way when Stiles encountered him at school that morning—Mountain Ash didn’t in and of itself have much of an odour, but as Derek had pointed out, it would discourage any wolves from trying to investigate too intently. Judging from how Jackson was wrinkling his nose in disgust, that still held true.

     “New aftershave,” Stiles deadpanned, then unbuckled himself out of the car. He almost forgot to grab his bags out of the back seat. “Jackson, a pleasure as never. Danny…” He offered a small but genuine smile across the front seat. “Just thanks,” he finished, and got out of the car.

     “Any time,” Danny answered easily enough. “Let me know how it goes. And if there’s anything else… you know where to find me.”

     Nodding once, Stiles waved at Shay and began to make his way across the parking lot to where his own Jeep was parked. He could feel both Danny and Jackson’s eyes on his back, and he tried not to let it bug him that Danny’s reaction to what Derek had said still didn’t quite sit right in his gut. The closest thing he could liken it to was sympathy, and he couldn’t for the life of him figure out why.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Your idea of fun looks an awful lot like a shit show waiting to happen,” retorted Derek, but Stiles could tell from the resigned tone of his voice that he was starting to cave._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Muchas gracias to qthelights, RC_Mclachlan, blue_fjords, and akadougal for their cheerleading and beta help on this chapter! Sorry it took so long for me to post - a cold knocked me on my ass and I didn't get any writing done for over a week! Hopefully we'll be back to the regular once-a-week posting schedule now, though. Fingers crossed!

     Stiles was seriously beginning to reconsider the wisdom of having hung a mirror on the inside of his locker; somehow it always made him feel like shit. Having driven himself to school that morning in an exhausted stupor, he knew, rationally, he shouldn’t be surprised by the sight of his drawn face nor the shadows under his eyes, hair sticking wildly up in front because he’d not only let it go too long without getting it cut, but had been too tired and lazy to deal with it this morning. It didn’t make for a pleasant picture, speaking instead of too many late nights and an overall state of frustration Stiles really didn’t think he was equipped to deal with. He looked like shit twice warmed over, and that was putting it nicely. Even Derek had sent him to bed last night with little more than a peck and an order to “get some fucking sleep” which, coming from a guy who hardly slept, was saying something. 

     Sighing, Stiles gathered his textbooks from the top shelf and slammed the locker shut with as much force as he could muster, hoping the loud metallic clank would scare some life back into him. He needed a kick in the ass if he was going to remain awake enough to write his calculus midterm this afternoon. However, the one thing he didn’t count on giving him a fright was the sight of Scott’s grim face there to greet him when he closed the door. Since Stiles was just a dumb kid and not a supernatural creature of the night, he could still be snuck up on like any old shmuck.

     “Jesus!” he exclaimed, forcibly prying his textbooks down from where he’d raised them in front of his chest in a defensive gesture. It was useless to try and reassure himself he’d done so out of surprise and nothing more, because if Stiles was honest, he’d been casually avoiding his friends in the last little while for reasons that were sure to make Scott less than magnanimous towards him. Unsurprisingly, Scott tracked the reflex and frowned harder. “Warn a guy before you do that, wouldja?”

     From the stubborn crease between Scott’s eyebrows that refused to ease up, even in apology, Stiles could tell this wasn’t going to be an easygoing round of catch-up. Sure enough, the first words out of Scott’s mouth were a terse, “Where were you last night? I tried calling you a million times and your phone kept going straight to voicemail.”

     Bristling, Stiles resisted the urge to tell the truth _or_ snap out a retort along the lines of “hello to you too, jackass,” because it wasn’t like Scott to be so abrupt unless he was pissed about something or worried about Allison. “I was studying for calc and didn’t want any distractions,” he answered instead, which wasn’t a complete lie. Not when you considered it answered the _what_ and the _why_ , if maybe not the _where_. While it wasn’t at all unusual for Stiles to spend the majority of his time at Derek’s, he didn’t want to invite additional scrutiny as to what he’d been doing before and after the studying took place, and not to mention the breaks in between. Somehow he didn’t think Scott would be reassured to know they hadn’t even made it to the heavy petting stage before the rest of the pack arrived home.

     “Did you maybe forget about anything else you might’ve agreed to do last night?”

     “What? I don’t—” It was a trick question, obviously, but right away Stiles knew his answer failed to satisfy, especially when Scott’s scowl deepened. Then Stiles noticed the Economics textbook Scott was holding, because Scott was never subtle like that, and realization dawned. “Shiiiiiiiit,” he moaned, screwing his face up. “I forgot I was supposed to help you study for your Econ exam. It totally slipped my mind.”

     Scott made an unimpressed noise. “Yeah, that’s generally what ‘I forgot’ means,” he deadpanned. “I had to ask Allison and Isaac for help instead.”

     After nearly two decades of friendship, Stiles had learned to accept and live with a certain amount of bitchiness from Scott without losing it—the guy was just single-minded to a fault, and rationally Stiles knew that—but today either he’d somehow eclipsed himself or Stiles was already in too much of a bad mood to deal with it gracefully. 

     “Is that one of the ones you got right on the vocab portion of the SATs, man?” he snapped before he could stop himself. “Because if so, gold star all the way. Really.” 

     The moment the words were out, Stiles sucked in a breath and pinched his lips together to keep from blurting anything else. Scott was staring at him with a stunned expression. It was, without a doubt, the meanest thing he’d ever said to Scott, and until really recently he never would’ve thought himself capable of crossing that line. Privately, and yes, Stiles did occasionally share jokes with himself, thanks very much, he liked to think of Scott as Brittany from _Glee_ insofar as he’d seen maybe two whole episodes in his life: he could make fun of almost anything else, but never, ever insult Scott’s intelligence or lack thereof. Other people did it all the time, but not Stiles, because no one was more aware than Scott that he wasn’t always the sharpest spoon in the drawer, eclipsed by the brainiacs in the group like Lydia or Boyd or, hell, Stiles. Even his own girlfriend. That Scott no longer shared any classes with them except for PE was a subject Stiles had been tiptoeing around for literally months. And he’d just gone there. 

     “I’m sorry,” he said immediately, meaning it. Stiles wasn’t much for breaking hearts, but he recognized the expression on Scott’s face as the same one he’d seen on his dad after Stiles got him fired from the Sheriff’s Department: utterly gutted. “That was an exceptionally shitty thing to say, and I have no excuse except that I am in a foul mood. Which isn’t even that _good_ of an excuse.”

     Stiles could tell Scott was doing his level best to resist decking him, which he appreciated; victims of werewolf punches tended to end up in the hospital suffering from some form of brain damage. It was more than Stiles probably deserved right then.

     “This is exactly what I’m talking about. What’s been going on with you lately, man?” Scott asked, anger flaring despite how hard he was trying to keep a lid on it. “You’re either AWOL half the time, completely distracted, or you go around looking like someone just kicked your dog. And it’s not like you to just blow me off the way you’ve been doing.”

     None of the responses that immediately came to Stiles’s mind were suitable, or at least didn’t lend much sincerity to his apology of not thirty seconds ago. He wanted to point out that Scott had been blowing him off for Allison for the better part of three years now, and when he wasn’t distracted by the bipolar highs and lows of their relationship, he was preoccupied with some werewolf business or another. Business that, no matter how much Stiles tried, he would never really be a part of. Even Derek couldn’t deny it beyond a certain point. Nor was Stiles blind to the fact that Scott and Isaac possessed a level of mutual understanding he wasn’t and couldn’t ever be privy to while he remained human. That had never really been an issue before, but things changed and people grew up, lost common ground they’d once shared as naturally as breathing. 

     Trouble was, Stiles couldn’t come out and say any of that. He knew Scott meant well, but couldn’t shake the feeling that Scott wasn’t asking after Stiles’s current state because he was worried about _Stiles_ ; he was asking because he was worried about Stiles letting him down. That was probably unfair as well as untrue, but the fact remained that Scott had never been very good at listening to Stiles’s problems when there was something else on his mind. Which there obviously was, and Stiles didn’t even have to bother hedging his bets about what that might be.

     In the end, he couldn’t help it if Scott’s version of “concerned” left more of a sour taste in his mouth than when he’d started.

     “It’s nothing, really,” Stiles sighed, hating himself for lying to his friend as much as he resented Scott for making it so fucking _hard_ to tell the truth sometimes. “There’s just been a lot of pressure lately. You know, with exams and college around the corner and stuff. Plus coach has been training us extra hard for the big track meet in a couple weeks. Not really handling everything with my usual sense of equanimity.”

     “Equa—what?” 

     Before Stiles could sub the word out for something more accessible, Scott scoffed and rolled his eyes a little, but then his face softened and he nodded toward the stream of students moving through the hallway to indicate he and Stiles should start walking, too. They did, albeit at a more sedate pace, since Stiles supposed neither of them were in too much of a hurry to go and face their respective midterms. 

     “Listen,” said Scott, “I get all that, and we’ve all been under a lot of stress lately. But… jeez. It’s bad enough that we don’t see each other in any classes anymore or even on the lacrosse team, and with all this stuff going on with college applications and Allison and going to completely different schools—I just need my buddy, dude.” He grabbed Stiles’s arm for emphasis, the gesture nothing if not comradely, but Stiles found himself stalling in the middle of the hallway and shaking off Scott’s hand. Puzzled, Scott looked back at him with the crease returning between his brows.

     “How is this conversation _still_ about Allison?” Stiles asked, unable to keep the bite or the hurt from his voice. He wanted to throw his hands up, and would’ve if he hadn’t been carrying an armload of textbooks. “It’s always the same thing, man. You come to me asking what my deal is and if anything’s wrong, but no sooner do I say I’ve been feeling a bit crazy and under pressure, you’re already off about your girlfriend and how sad it is that you aren’t going to be living out of each other’s pockets anymore come September. Well, guess what, Scott? Shit happens, people move away. Everyone else seems to be dealing with the prospect with the minimal amount of whining. And at least you _have_ the consolation of knowing there’s a significant other waiting for you a short drive away, unlike some of us.” 

     Stiles’s shoulders sagged and he felt suddenly even more tired than he had before Scott approached him. He knew he shouldn’t be unloading any of his current frustrations like this, but it was also kind of too late to take it back.

     “Stiles…” Scott’s voice even sounded shell-shocked, more than Stiles could remember having heard it in a while. “Look, I didn’t mean to—” His face scrunched up in the way it did when Scott was truly upset about something, because it made him look like a pug. “If there’s something you need to get off your chest, you know you can always come to me, right? Regardless of whatever else you might think. I know I talk about Allison a lot and we haven’t been hanging out as much as before, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to know what’s going on in your life or help if I can. You’re still my bro. Whatever the problem is… you can tell me.”

     Shaking his head, Stiles gritted his teeth and fixed his gaze on Scott’s shoes. He really, really wanted to believe what Scott said was true, but they’d known each other far too long. Scott’s optimism, as much as Stiles desperately wished he could find it contagious, had no basis in reality that he could see; if he were to begin talking about how conflicted he’d felt lately about his emotions towards Derek, how preoccupied, not to mention the ungodly amount of frustration that came from wanting to be naked with him at every available opportunity… well. Not only would Scott not want to hear about any of that, but he’d be too upset about Stiles hiding stuff from him to actually care about what Stiles was going through. He would start off with the best of intentions, only to be blinded by the reality that Stiles had been going behind his back with Derek and miss the point completely. 

     That didn’t mean Stiles didn’t think about telling him, and often. Hell, Scott was the only person he could think of to turn to whenever he wanted to vent about the seriously vicious case of blue balls he’d been suffering since the first time he and Derek kissed. Scott had been there, once upon a time; he would understand what it was like to want to spend all your time with a person and be constantly foiled by nosy if well-meaning parents, or midterms, or overly curious packmates who were still in the dark that any of this was even going on. And if the person in question had been anyone but Derek, Scott would have understood what it was like to have your feelings for someone slowly get away from you, even if you knew it was an epically bad idea to go down that road. 

     But it was Derek, and the point was moot. Stiles knew Scott still struggled to see how he and Derek even tolerated each other as people on a good day, let alone friends; throw in a healthy dose of mutual jealousy and Stiles was honestly amazed they hadn’t edged around this conversation sooner. Really, the best-case scenario was that Scott would get over Stiles lying to him just in time to become overprotective and concerned about Stiles getting hurt. No matter how he looked at it, Derek was right: this wasn’t something Stiles could talk about with his friends, not yet. He barely knew how to explain it to himself anymore, not even two weeks into their arrangement.

     “It’s nothing,” he repeated, and the words felt like such a personal failure he couldn’t even begin to describe it.

     “Stiles, come on.”

     He shook his head and still couldn’t bring himself to meet Scott’s eyes, which he could feel fixed on his face. Swallowing around the lump in his throat, Stiles considered how it had happened that he still found reasons to lie about stuff to the people he loved. He thought his dad would’ve been the absolute last of it, but somehow he kept backsliding. Maybe it made no sense to resort to brutal honesty with Scott about some things and lie to his face about others, but Stiles was doing the best he could. 

     When Stiles finally managed to look up at his friend’s face, two bright spots of colour had appeared on Scott’s cheeks. He looked like he wanted to be anywhere but here, which wasn’t much comfort, but Stiles tried to reassure himself Scott was still holding his ground for all that. “Honestly, don’t worry about it,” he said. “It’s the pre-exam jitters talking, that’s all. I didn’t mean to sound so harsh back there. You’re right about how much stress we’ve all been under lately.”

     Seemingly out of nowhere, the bell sounded, and Stiles glanced around to see the hallway had mostly emptied out while he and Scott were having their weird not-spat; never had he been more grateful to be late for an exam.

     “I really gotta go,” he rushed out. “You too! Finstock will have your balls if you’re late for the midterm.”

     Scott shifted his bag on his shoulders but didn’t immediately tear his eyes away from Stiles’s face. “Yeah, I guess,” Scott ventured reluctantly. “Are you sure you’re—”

     “Yes.” Stiles hoped he kept the note of desperation out of his voice. “Just… go, and I’ll catch up with you later. Good luck on the exam, may the Force be with you, etcetera, etcetera. Just try to steer clear of writing about foreskins; it is _not_ the key to getting an A.”

     At that, Scott wrinkled his nose. “Okay, I’ll see you later, I guess. Good luck on yours, too.” 

     Though he remained plainly unconvinced, if the expression on his face was anything to go by, Scott began to turn away. Of course he knew Stiles was trying to buy him off by lying through his teeth—he would have heard Stiles’s damn heartbeat thundering—but the beauty of exams was that they would wait for no man. Nor would a fail grade, if Scott didn’t show up, and there was a pretty short list of people who could motivate Scott to that kind of truancy. It didn’t make him feel better, but Stiles pretty much counted on his name not being on it. They went their separate ways with a half-hearted exchange of waves, and though Stiles for a moment considered it, he didn’t turn to check if Scott had looked back.

+

     Judging by the number of cars lining the driveway, everyone—or almost everyone—was present and accounted for when Stiles pulled up in front of Derek’s after school. Belatedly he remembered lacrosse practice was cancelled that week because of midterms.

     He turned off the Jeep’s ignition and sat there beneath the trees for several long minutes, watching the movements of the mostly bare branches overhead and hesitating over whether he should go inside or simply turn around and drive back home. His bad mood from earlier had yet to lift, and he didn’t think he was up to facing a whole group of people for polite conversation or otherwise. Although Scott’s car appeared to be missing, which was more of a relief than Stiles felt comfortable admitting at the moment, there was still the rest of the pack to contend with, and like it or not they tended to command attention.

     Stiles sighed. Although he’d known it was a long shot, the whole drive over he kept hoping he might turn up to an empty house—empty except for Derek, that is. All Stiles wanted was to maybe curl up in his arms in the hopes some physical closeness might draw him out of his funk, make his mind go quiet for a while. He had to admit he was starting to understand why Scott always used to contradict himself that way, why “I want to be alone” always included Allison. There was something about hiding out with a lover that was different from being with your friends, and right now that’s what Stiles craved. 

     Even that had been too much to ask lately, though, judging by the fact that he’d barely kissed Derek except for a few stolen moments away from the pack or in Stiles’s room when he wasn’t frantically studying. Hell, he’d spent almost all his meagre savings on sexy underwear and hadn’t even had the chance to show anything off yet. It didn’t look like that would happen tonight, either, but Stiles reassured himself that maybe he and Derek could still sneak away for a few moments by themselves.

     Interrupting his thoughts, his phone buzzed against his leg to signal an incoming text. Stiles unbuckled his seatbelt and dug into the pocket of his jeans to retrieve it, and immediately saw it was from Derek. _Why are you sitting outside in your jeep?_ he wanted to know, and Stiles huffed a short laugh. Of course Derek would’ve heard him pull up already.

      _Was kind of hoping to c u alone_ , he replied. _Not in a pack mood rn 2 b honest._

     A moment later, the response came. _Just come upstairs._

     With a snort, Stiles tucked his phone away and pulled the keys out of the ignition, then grabbed his bag and opened the car door. There was still enough of a bite in the spring air to make him shiver as he trudged up the driveway to the house, jacket pulled close around him, and his shoes kicked up bits of dirt and the dead leaves that seemed to perpetually cover the ground on Derek’s property and throughout the Beacon Hills Preserve. It smelled fresh, though, enough that you knew it was only a matter of time before the trees sprouted green and alive again, and the thought of warmer weather cheered Stiles’s mood somewhat. But not as much as the thought of Derek’s warm bed, Derek’s warm _body_. 

     Hurrying his pace, Stiles threw open the front door and bypassed the living room—he could see Jackson and Lydia curled up together on the couch, Erica, Boyd, and Isaac seated in front of the television with Playstation controllers in hand—with a quick “Hey, guys! Need to talk to Derek!” before he took to the stairs and bounded up them two at a time. Derek’s bedroom was located at the very end of the hall, and Stiles reminded himself to slow his steps a little so the werewolves downstairs wouldn’t think there was some kind of an emergency.

     Derek was lounging on his bed, reading, reclined on his side with his legs crossed at the ankles. He looked up with a small, impossibly warm smile of welcome when Stiles opened the door. Seeing Derek with a book in his hand wasn’t unusual, but always struck Stiles as so uncanny that it sent a little zing of surprised pleasure through him every time he caught Derek at it. The speed at which he read was impressive, too, as Stiles had seen Derek pick up a 300-page book in the morning and have it finished before dinnertime; to someone with ADHD, that was pretty impressive, since Stiles had never even sat through the whole film version of _The Lord of the Rings_ , never mind the book. Today’s pick was _Of Human Bondage_ , which Stiles was pretty sure Derek had read before, since he remembered making a joke about BDSM. Either way, Derek marked his place with a scrap of paper and set it aside when Stiles sighed dramatically and flopped face-first onto the bed next to him.

     “Rough day?” Derek asked, making his voice infuriatingly chipper on purpose, and Stiles just groaned into the duvet. After a moment, he shifted closer until his head butted up against Derek’s chest. Ever since the first time they’d gotten naked together—mostly naked, anyway—it’d been easier and easier for Stiles to take little liberties like this, to touch Derek in affectionate ways when they were in private without first waiting for an invitation. Still, he felt ridiculously gratified when Derek settled a hand on his head and petted his hair almost absently, fingertips occasionally sliding lower to trace Stiles’s ear. Probably that was a werewolf thing, the touching, but Stiles liked it so much he wanted to twitch his leg in pleasure.

     “You have no idea,” he mumbled. “There’s a good chance I completely bombed calculus today, and apparently I’m the world’s worst friend because I forgot I promised to help Scott study for an exam last night.”

     “So? You had your own exam to study for. And don’t give me that crap about ‘a promise is a promise,’ because Scott can’t honestly expect you to sacrifice your own grades just to help him.”

     Stiles turned his head and found Derek looking down at him with a perfectly serious expression. He arched an eyebrow and dared to poke Derek in the stomach. “Have you met Scott, ever? Because it’s almost like we’re talking about different people.”

     Derek rolled his eyes, then shifted farther down the bed so that he and Stiles were lying more or less eye-to-eye. “My point is, you’re not Scott’s keeper. If that job falls to anyone, it falls to me, and even I wouldn’t want to help him study.”

     “That’s because you’re a dick.”

     Huffing a laugh, though he didn’t deny it, Derek’s warm palm moved to cup Stiles’s neck and he brushed his thumb down the line of his jaw. Stiles nuzzled into it like a kitten. _Yes_ , this was exactly what he’d needed. A simple touch that, while not in itself completely uncomplicated, managed to soothe his tension away better than anything else he could think of. He couldn’t decide what was more frightening: how much Derek affected him, or how badly he craved it. 

     “People tend to take you a lot more seriously when you tell them no,” Stiles reminded him drily. “I can try, but they usually ignore me or take advantage of my weak spot for a pair of sad puppy eyes. So either way I’m screwed, because if I’m not stressing myself out trying to get someone out of a jam, I’m stressed out feeling bad I couldn’t do anything to help them.” He shrugged. “Scott would do the same thing for me, really. It’s not his fault he’s the Scarecrow to my Dorothy.”

     With a gentle snort, Derek hooked their ankles together in such a way that allowed him to roll Stiles onto his back before Stiles even realized what was happening. Derek straddled him, and his hands easily closed around Stiles’s wrists and pinned them to the mattress over his head. “What does that make me?” he murmured, dipping his head low enough so Stiles would catch the quiet timbre of his voice. Annoyingly, he stayed far enough out of reach that Stiles couldn’t crane his head up to kiss him. “The Cowardly Lion?”

     “No, that’s Jackson,” Stiles answered immediately. God, he’d get his balls ripped off if the man in question ever heard him say that. “You’d be a flying monkey, maybe. Always trying to get those big mitts of yours all over me so you can have your wicked way.”

     “Idiot.”

     Stiles bit his lip and delighted internally when he saw Derek’s eyes sharpen at the action, drawn to Stiles’s mouth. It was only half on purpose when he poked his tongue out to wet his lips and said, “Hey, you’re supposed to be helping me unwind after my bad day, not calling me names.” Meeting Derek’s eyes, he rolled his hips up a little to indicate his idea of a more appropriate activity, though it was probably stupid to even go there with half the pack gathered downstairs. “You _are_ a terrible friend,” he teased softly. “Nothing more than a bad, bad, _bad_ influence. Rubbing off on me.”

     Derek responded with the expected amount of exasperation, and leaned in to trail his nose along Stiles’s cheek. He emitted a quiet groan, but it was more a noise of regret than arousal. Not that he seemed at all unaffected, because the kiss he brushed against Stiles’s lips went on a bit too long to be casual, especially when Stiles arched to respond, mouth open and eager and just wishing to feel the slide of Derek’s tongue. Plus he could feel Derek hardening against his hip, there was that. His own breathing sped up in response and he squirmed again, this time out of impatience rather than an attempt to torment. 

     “I’d like to rub my bad influence all over you right now. Don’t tempt me,” Derek warned him, sounding pained. Right, like Stiles was the one pinning him to the bed and rubbing his ridiculous muscles everywhere. But Derek’s fingers flexed against Stiles’s wrists like he was restless, and Stiles wondered what it said about him that he wasn’t even trying to wriggle out of the hold Derek had on him. “If I thought you had any hope at all of keeping quiet, trust me, I’d be all too happy to help you ‘unwind’.” 

     Now there was a thought that made all the blood rush to Stiles’s dick, and he allowed himself a small moan, mindful to keep it soft and beyond the hearing of little wolf ears. The big wolf on top of him heard it just fine, though, judging by the sudden softness of Derek’s mouth and his half-lidded eyes, a look Stiles could only describe as “yearning.” He wanted more of that and decided he couldn’t be held accountable for anything he said or did next, panting out, “Oh yeah? And just how would you do that?”

     Chuckling like he was on to Stiles’s game, Derek said, far too reasonably, “I guess I’ve been a bad teacher, huh? Going too long between lessons like we have.” 

     “Oh right, I forgot. A bad teacher _and_ a terrible friend,” he agreed breathlessly, then dragged his heels up Derek’s calves until they were hooked loosely around his thighs. Stiles realized he was still wearing his shoes and even his jacket. “Friends don’t let friends get blue balls. A friend would let me touch him because I really, _really_ fucking want to.”

     Derek sighed. “Do I need to remind you what a colossally bad idea that is with everyone here? You’ll reek of me.” 

     “The Mountain Ash is in my bag, dummy. Never leave the house without it.”

     “Still.” Derek hesitated and Stiles had to admit he looked pretty conflicted; it was also hilarious to him that they were conducting this entire debate in a series of near-whispers. “I mean, Stiles… I want it too, but we talked about this.”

     Releasing Stiles’s wrists, he slid their palms together and intertwined their fingers, then pressed the full weight of his body down against Stiles’s chest. It left Stiles no less restrained but felt a bit less bondage-y. Not that he thought he’d object at all to the idea of Derek holding him down, maybe tying him up—fuck, maybe tying Derek up, holy hell—and the whine he made at the back of his throat was completely involuntary. This was what happened when Stiles didn’t have an outlet for his sexual urges; it was like nothing for his mind to go into overdrive, for him to go from a dude with a normal, if adolescent, libido to practically gagging for it like some kind of come-hungry slut or something. Once upon a time, he’d thought having sex would calm him down a little, tide him over, but its effect was just the opposite; breaking the seal made him want to get off with someone, get off with _Derek_ , way more than ever before. Like, _all the time_. As if one taste was all it took to form an addiction. Surely Derek understood the urgency here.

     Working on a hunch, Stiles squeezed his thighs and tilted his hips to the side, using Derek’s own weight to roll them over. Figuratively speaking or otherwise, he’d strongly suspected Derek might not resist him, allowing Stiles to settle himself on top with their hands still linked. He gave a triumphant smile and let go, instead planting his hands against Derek’s shoulders. “A second ago you said you’d totally go there if you thought I could keep quiet.”

     “Yeah, and we both know the odds of that happening are about as good as me sprouting a pair of fucking wings and flying away.” Derek paused. “In no way was that a reference to the flying monkey thing, before you say anything.”

     “Sticking feathers up your butt doesn’t make you a chicken,” Stiles quipped.

     “That doesn’t even make any sense.”

     God, watch _Fight Club_ much? With a roll of his eyes, Stiles withdrew from Derek, much as it pained him, then jumped off the bed altogether. Hopping around on one foot at a time, he removed his shoes, socks, and then his jacket, not bothering to pick the discarded clothing up off the floor where it fell. Next he lifted his fingers to the buttons of his army-green shirt, the one with the epaulettes that had once made a freshman whistle at him in the hallway. As he started to unbutton it, Derek pushed up to his elbows and looked at Stiles with an expression that was alarmed and interested all at once.

     “What are you doing?” he asked, eyes flickering between Stiles’s face and the skin slowly being exposed by his impromptu performance. 

     Once his shirt was undone, Stiles shrugged out of it as gracefully as he knew how and dropped it onto the pile. To Derek, he flashed a smile and said, “So maybe you have a point and my volume control leaves something to be desired,” then lowered his hands to his belt buckle. “But there’s two of us, and your werewolfy self-control is kind of legendary, right? Or at least that’s what you’re always leading us to believe.” 

     The button-fly of his jeans came apart under his hands with a soft popping of fabric, and Stiles advanced a few steps so he was standing right at the foot of the bed, looking down into Derek’s upturned and admittedly curious face. As Stiles opened his jeans and began to slowly push them down his hips, he hoped Derek was paying close attention to the flash of bright fabric as he revealed his underwear. Fuck, but Stiles would’ve instigated this for no other reason than to show them off. One striptease down, twelve to go.

     “Are you wearing pink underwear?” Derek asked, eyes dark and intent on the way the material clung to Stiles’s erection, the curve of his ass.

     “They’re not pink; they’re salmon.” 

     Stiles kicked his jeans off the rest of the way, then crawled forward onto the bed so he was kneeling over Derek again. He took Derek’s hands and placed them against his hips, letting Derek’s thumbs slot against his hipbones as he settled into his lap. It forced Derek to lie down again, back flat against the mattress. Although Stiles was sure Derek would feel him trembling, he kept telling himself he could do this. That he was the same boy he’d seen in the mirror last week, trying on underwear and feeling like a million dollars; the same boy who’d felt Derek’s hands on him and felt like a million bucks more.

     “Do you like them?” he asked softly.

     Derek’s face took on a slightly glazed expression and his fingers trailed a feather-light touch across Stiles’s skin, skimming the bottom hem of the trunks and tickling the dusting of dark hair on Stiles’s thighs. Their gazes met and held for a moment before Derek allowed his eyelids to flutter shut. “You look—” His throat worked around a swallow, and when he opened his eyes again his pupils were dilated, huge. “Yeah, I like them,” he answered roughly.

     Danny was so getting a thank-you basket.

     Nibbling his lip, Stiles leaned forward until his nose bumped Derek’s hair. Obviously Derek would still hear him even if he spoke in the lowest voice possible, but he kind of liked the idea of whispering his dirtiest secrets in Derek’s ear. “I’ve been thinking that, as the next part of my education, I’d really like to suck you off,” he murmured, trailing his hands down Derek’s chest. He stopped at the waistband of the other man’s jeans and let his fingers play over the button, a question. “I’ve been fantasizing about it a lot, you know? Like, all the time. Maybe even since before. Want to taste you.” 

     A small but perceptible shudder ran through Derek’s body, and Stiles heard his sharp intake of breath. The hands on his hips slid around and beneath the waistband of his underwear to cup his ass, fingers digging into flesh. “As much as I like where you’re going with this, I don’t—”

     “What, afraid someone might hear you? Don’t think you can stay quiet enough?” Stiles pulled back in time to see the flash of exasperation in Derek’s eyes. Grinning his cheekiest grin, he started to slide the button through the hole when Derek didn’t stop him, then gave a gentle tug against the zipper pull. “Come on, killjoy, I believe in you. It’ll be fun. You remember what _fun_ is, right?”

     “Your idea of fun looks an awful lot like a shit show waiting to happen,” retorted Derek, but Stiles could tell from the resigned tone of his voice that he was starting to cave. Excellent. When Stiles experimentally rocked against him, grinding their erections together, Derek bit his lip to stifle the groan. Withdrawing from his underwear, Derek’s hands lightly settled over Stiles’s as if to keep him from going further, but his grip was loose and hardly much of a deterrent. “Kid, you’re going to be the death of me.”

     “I want to blow you, not kill you.” 

     “Don’t really see the difference from where I’m sitting.”

     “Mmm-hmm. Tell me that again in five minutes, big guy.”

     Holding Derek’s gaze, Stiles began to inch his way down his body, knee-walking backwards until he was seated in the vicinity of Derek’s knees and had easy access to his crotch. Because really, there was no point pretending that wasn’t where this was going. Maybe he had no freaking idea what he was doing beyond the truly astonishing amount of pornography he’d watched in preparation for this moment, but Stiles was pretty sure the first step was committing. Or perhaps it was getting Derek undressed, then committing. Or committing to getting Derek undressed.

     Cupping his palm around the impressive bulge in Derek’s jeans was a good place to start. He quite clearly wasn’t wearing any underwear underneath. Derek rumbled a low moan in his throat and immediately tried to swallow it, tipping his head back against the pillow, though his hips gave a helpless buck into Stiles’s hand. Stiles gave him a gentle squeeze of encouragement before he pushed Derek’s T-shirt up off his belly; quite helpfully, Derek stripped the whole thing off while Stiles lowered the zipper on his jeans the rest of the way, then hooked his fingers into the waistband to start pulling them down. There was no stopping the soft, pleased noise that escaped him when Derek’s cock popped free, slapping wetly against his stomach, and Derek made a sound that could only be described as “nngh.”

     The audible click of Stiles’s swallow was loud in the room, accompanied only by their ragged breathing. He’d seen Derek’s cock the other night, obviously, but not at such close range, and Stiles hadn’t really taken the time to note all the little differences between Derek’s junk and his own. The most his hormone-addled brain had been able to process at the time was _hard_ and _hot_ and _big_ and maybe _uncut_ , too, for the bonus round, but now Stiles also paused to appreciate that Derek’s skin was incredibly soft, velvety even, and that the flushed, shiny head of his cock was a few shades darker than Stiles’s, still partially swallowed up by the foreskin. He was a hell of a lot more intimidating to behold up close. Stiles might’ve had people telling him he had a big mouth on a regular basis, but suddenly he had no idea how the fuck he was supposed to cram all of Derek in there without choking himself.

     “Just go slow,” Derek murmured, probably sensing Stiles’s apprehension. He reached out and touched his cheek gently. “You’ll relax more as you get used to it.”

     “Right.” Alarmingly, Derek’s dick jumped slightly at the exhalation of Stiles’s breath over it. 

     With a silent _Here goes nothing_ , Stiles leaned in and nuzzled the warm, veiny underside of Derek’s cock, immediately feeling overwhelmed—in a good way, he thought—by the heady smell, the responsiveness of that organ. Opening his mouth a bit wider, Stiles pulled the foreskin down, then touched his tongue to a spot just beneath the crown. The taste was… indescribable. Like pure sex, if sex had a taste. It wouldn’t exactly shock Stiles to learn Derek literally oozed it from every pore.

     Stiles heard the encouraging hitch of Derek’s breathing and turned his head so he could more easily press a series of slow, dragging kisses down the shaft, trying to spread as much wetness as his salivary glands could produce. Spit was key, he knew that much. He didn’t mind so much that Derek’s cock was rubbing all over his cheeks and chin, though it was messy and he was secretly glad he barely had any facial hair to speak of. 

     When he reached the base he licked a long stripe back up to the top, then attempted to circle his tongue around the head before sucking the whole thing into his mouth, careful to cover his teeth with his lips just like all the message boards said. Suction was by no means the instinctive thing in this situation, the lion’s share of Stiles’s concentration focused on not nicking Derek accidentally, but after a second he thought it couldn’t hurt to try, just to see if the whole sucking part of sucking someone off wasn’t a misnomer. 

     Shit, Stiles wished he’d experienced this before so he’d know what felt good; he was kind of flying blind, testing out different things just to see what worked, making educated guesses based on what he’d seen in videos or had imagined in bed late at night, the best he could approximate with his fingers. He tightened his lips and pushed his tongue against the glans, then rubbed up and over the slit, and found the whole exercise became easier if he braced a hand around Derek’s cock to steady it. Playing with the foreskin was an entirely new sensation, and it turned out he could elicit pleasant grunts and gasps by poking his tongue between the skin and the head or tugging at it with his lips, even nibbling gently. Next Stiles experimented with screwing his mouth as far down the shaft as he could without gagging. Trying to do it all while hollowing his cheeks out at the same time was no easy feat, but when Derek settled a hand in Stiles’s hair and bit his lip around a groan, Stiles figured he’d been at least partway successful.

     “Just like that,” Derek whispered to him, petting his hair and occasionally clenching his fingers when Stiles did something new. His hips were making tiny, controlled thrusts towards Stiles’s mouth, nothing rude, just enough to show he was into it. “You feel so amazing right now, keep doing what you’re doing. You can speed up a little.”

     The encouragement made Stiles hum appreciatively, noise bordering on a moan, and he started to bob his head faster, finding a rhythm that quickly became familiar, easy almost. His enthusiasm and desire for Derek’s pleasure spurred him on. While his own erection was stiff to the point of painful, Stiles didn’t want to touch himself lest he get distracted. 

     Unsure what to do with his free hand, he placed it against the top of Derek’s thigh; a second later, Derek guided Stiles’s fingers to cup his balls, muttering a thick “Yeah” as Stiles got the hint and rolled them in his palm, alternating between gentle squeezes and firmer tugs the way he himself liked. Working on instinct, he detached from Derek’s cock and lowered his head to lick and kiss at the fuzzy sac until Derek whimpered, then released him to focus back on his penis. Derek’s prediction proved correct: Stiles had relaxed enough that it became more comfortable for him to fit more in his mouth, taking Derek’s length until his lips touched the edge of his fist. Not quite ready for deep-throating yet, but Stiles thought he might get there eventually. Practice makes perfect and all that.

     Derek was moving his hips a bit more forcefully now, rocking against Stiles’s rhythm in counterpoint, and Stiles barely remembered to control his own volume as his excitement peaked. He loved the feeling of Derek fucking up into his mouth, like he knew how much Stiles needed it, and he swallowed around the hard flesh with greedy abandon, sucking and swirling his tongue against the underside for all he was worth. Spit and precome ran down his chin and over his fingers; he thought that meant Derek was probably close, because Stiles, too, always seemed to leak like a geyser just before he was about to shoot.

     “Look at you,” Derek mumbled, awe clear in his voice. He thumbed the edge of Stiles’s lips where they were stretched wide. “You’re gonna make me come, you know that? Mouth on you like a fucking demon.”

     Stiles pulled off with a wet pop and let his tongue loll against the ridge of Derek’s cock as he looked up to meet his gaze—fuck, but he always loved it when people did that in porn, and sure enough Derek hissed a soft whimper out between his teeth. Blotches of red darkened his neck and chest, and every inch of his expression was drugged and stupid; Stiles would’ve found it amusing if it weren’t so goddamned hot.

     He really wished he could’ve held eye contact as Derek slowly began to thrust into his mouth again, but it was too intense or Stiles lacked the chutzpah to withstand a stare like that, feeling bashful. Lids fluttering shut, Stiles resumed the suction with everything he had, pumping his fist in time, sliding the foreskin up and down, squeezing Derek’s balls until it sounded like the effort of suppressing a shout was physically painful. Then the hand in Stiles’s hair tightened and Derek said, “Stiles, ease up, I’m—” 

     But Stiles didn’t ease up, because he didn’t know to let go of a thing like this, not even if he had even less idea what to do with the possibility of Derek, fuck, _coming in his mouth_ , and yet at what point in the last three years had Stiles ever learned when to back down from the scary thing? He wouldn’t be here right now if he had. So he relaxed his throat as much as he could and flicked his eyes back up to Derek, finding that gaze still intent on his face, if pained, and then Stiles did the only thing he could think of to do.

     He smiled. 

     With a cry he had to muffle into his fist, whole body tensing like a rope snapped tight, Derek came.

     There seemed no possible way for Stiles to swallow it all, and he was sure he made a horrible freaking mess of it, letting come dribble out the corners of his mouth even as he felt Derek continue to spurt. Admittedly Stiles had sampled his own spunk before, so the taste and texture wasn’t a shock. But, fighting the impulse to cough, he did the best he could and only pulled away when Derek’s hand released his hair, fingers slack. A huge sigh whooshed out of him and he went limp against the mattress, chest heaving.

     Stiles opened his mouth to make a comment about how sexy Derek looked right now, but suddenly found himself hauled up the bed until he was straddling Derek’s waist. Derek sat up to crush their mouths together with enough force to steal Stiles’s breath. That was just the hottest thing ever, Derek not merely tasting his own come but _lapping_ it up, sharing it between them, and Stiles heard whimpers seeping out of him like smoke. He returned the kiss helplessly, digging his fingers into Derek’s hair, and gasped nonsense as lips meandered down his throat and sucked bruises against his collarbones. Before he knew it Derek’s mouth had fastened around a nipple and was working it into a hard, painful point that made Stiles hump up into him, trying to rub his erection against Derek’s abs for some much-needed friction.

     “Get up here,” hissed Derek, tugging him forwards even more. Stiles went, happy to do anything that brought his cock into close proximity with Derek’s face, and his fingers were actually trembling as he helped push his underwear down his hips, accidentally snagging it on his dick in his haste to get naked.

     He lost control of a startled yelp when Derek caught Stiles’s bobbing cock upon his tongue, lips closing around the tip with immediate suction that made Stiles sway and feel lightheaded, dropping his hands to Derek’s shoulders to hold himself up. Derek fed himself more of Stiles’s dick, hands tight around his ass to push him forward. If Stiles thought that handjob had been out of this world, Derek sucking him off was like achieving a whole other plane of existence.

     That made it all the more devastating when a strangled shout broke the silence, followed by a loud “What the _fuck_?” and the bang of the door against the wall. Stiles supposed his first reaction should’ve been gratitude that Derek didn’t bite his dick off in surprise, but instead he flailed his arms and whipped around to see Erica and Boyd framed in the entryway of Derek’s bedroom, Boyd’s fist clenched around the doorknob and a wild, murderous look in Erica’s eyes.

     There was a good chance Derek’s hands clutching Stiles’s ass and Stiles sitting on his face probably came across as pretty fucking incriminating, with little opportunity to pass it off as anything else than it was. Yeah, as far as Stiles could guess, it was looking dodgy with a side of “you’re fucked.”

     “Uh, hey guys,” he said, and had a horrible moment of realization where he couldn’t move any of his limbs or get himself to climb down off of Derek in any way. He thought he might pass out, though that was probably too much to hope for. “What’s up?”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The cat's out of the freaking bag.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my ever-wonderful betas, akadougal, blue_fjords, and qthelights for all their help and cheerleading on this chapter! It's a pretty epic one.

     It was a good thing Erica didn’t linger in Derek’s bedroom, choosing instead to stomp back downstairs in what Stiles supposed was her best Bigfoot impersonation, because the sound and volume of her scream would’ve immediately drawn the rest of the pack upstairs to survey the scene of the crime. Not that Stiles and Derek had been doing anything illegal, but he really, _really_ didn’t feel like being looked in on by a bunch of teenagers while mostly naked and his cock sticking out, still wet from Derek’s spit.

     Mouth hanging open—and there was a real possibility Stiles would never be able to close it again—he ticked his gaze away from Boyd’s mildly surprised expression and back to Derek’s face, which could only be described as blank. Stiles knew that was a testament to how stunned he was, that Derek didn’t even know how to react. The shock lasted no more than thirty seconds, however, before Derek turned murderous eyes on him.

     “I told you,” he said, voice strained. “I fucking _told you_ this was a bad idea—”

     “I’m going to give you two some privacy,” said Boyd, then calmly walked away.

     The idea of privacy was generous, no more than a courtesy, really, for Stiles and Derek to get dressed as quickly as possible with some semblance of dignity. Downstairs, Erica’s voice could still be heard screeching variations of “What the fuck?!” and there was a very small window of time for them to haul ass to the living room and start doing damage control. Stiles didn’t know what damage control even looked like in a situation like this, but he suspected it wasn’t anything pleasant. Suddenly he sympathized a hell of a lot with his dad and all the times he’d been forced to explain away Stiles’s weird behaviour and questionable choices not just to the rest of the police force, but the town in general. What Stiles needed was a publicist, his very own spin-doctor.

     He and Derek didn’t talk as they rushed to pull on their clothing and clean themselves up, though Stiles kept opening his mouth to try and address the uncomfortably tight set of Derek’s jaw. Having not removed his jeans all the way, Derek was back to looking decent in less time than Stiles, and moved for the door while Stiles was still struggling to get all the buttons of his shirt back into their correct holes.

     Deciding it was a lost cause, he rushed to block the doorway so that Derek couldn’t abandon him here. His words came out in a jumble of “don’t leave” and “I’m sorry” and “oh my God” and “What the fuck do we do now?”

     “Now we go talk to them,” Derek answered, sounding a lot less reasonable than the words suggested. Stiles knew he was trying not to flip his shit, though for whose benefit was anyone’s guess. It made Stiles really, really want to congratulate Derek on how much he’d grown as a person in the interceding years between them meeting and now, but didn’t think this was a good time. “We knew this was probably going to happen at some point.”

     “We did?”

     For a second Derek seemed to be practicing some deep-breathing techniques, eyes closed and face still. Stiles was a little aroused to see his mouth still appeared red and abused. Then Derek looked at Stiles again and, surprisingly, reached out to cup his cheek, palm huge and warm. The intention seemed to be to draw their foreheads together. Was this a trick? Was he about to get headbutted? Stiles waffled, disbelieving that Derek wasn’t still fit to be in a rage, but allowed himself to move closer when Derek made a vaguely impatient noise and tugged more firmly.

     Apparently whatever meditation technique he’d employed worked, because Derek suddenly sounded a lot less agitated when he sighed, “Yeah, we did, dumbshit. It’ll be okay. Just get dressed. Leave your socks.”

     “It’s making me really uncomfortable that you aren’t trying to slaughter something right now,” Stiles mumbled. “Namely, me.”

     Derek grimaced and withdrew. “As much as I hate to admit it, this is only 50 percent your fault.” Magnanimous as ever, that was Derek. He dropped his hands to finish buttoning Stiles’s shirt up for him. “Come on. They’ll be waiting.” Offering a smile that kind of creeped Stiles out even more than how weirdly stoic Derek was acting all of a sudden, he turned and left the room.

     “Fuck.”

     Sure enough, everyone was gathered downstairs in the living room, seated around a very traumatized and stressed-looking Erica, though Stiles didn’t miss that Boyd and Isaac seemed to be debating the matter of a bet. Quite frankly, the less Stiles knew about that, the better. Also failing to escape his notice was the fact that Scott and Allison had shown up at some point while Derek and Stiles were upstairs. Of the seven pairs of eyes that turned to stare at him when Stiles entered the room, there was no mistaking Scott’s were the angriest.

     He took one whiff of Stiles and said, “So it’s true—the two of you are screwing. You reek.” Not even Stiles had the willpower or denial necessary to ignore the hurt in Scott’s voice. “There’s been speculation for ages but I didn’t want to believe you’d keep something that big from everyone.”

     “You just cost me fifty bucks,” pouted Isaac. Both Stiles and Scott ignored him.

     Across the room, Derek was leaning against a sideboard with his arms folded, staring at the floor. He glanced up at Stiles once and rearranged his eyebrows in a complicated expression Stiles thought meant “I don’t know what to do either,” and Stiles tried to fight against the sudden dryness of his mouth.

     Scott demanded, “Were you ever planning to tell us?”

     “Not if this is the kind of firing squad we expected to be up against,” Stiles forced out. It was the wrong thing to say and he knew it, sparking a wave of outrage from both Scott and Erica, but surprisingly it was Allison who came to his defense, her hand resting on Scott’s arm in a way that was probably meant to be reassuring.

     “We shouldn’t be trying to pin everything on Stiles, you guys,” she said gently, which didn’t do his integrity any favours but was better than nothing. “He isn’t the only one involved here.” Pointedly she looked at Derek. “Kind of takes two to tango.”

     Less surprisingly, Jackson was all too eager to jump on that, fixing Derek with a smug twist of a smile. One thing that hadn’t changed much since Jackson was turned was the absurd amount of glee he exhibited in displaying any kind of insubordination. He always managed to pay for it after, but that’d never stopped him before. “Allison’s right,” he said, satisfaction naked in his voice. “Stiles isn’t the Alpha here—Derek is. If anyone should’ve come forward with this information, it’s him. But instead he thought it was okay to go behind our backs with Stilinski here.”

     Lydia smacked him hard on the shoulder, the loud _thwack_ echoing in the room, and for a moment Stiles was glad, really glad, not to be the only human present. He should’ve known Lydia and Allison might be more down-to-earth about this than the wolves, especially since they had their own hotheaded boyfriends to deal with on a daily basis. “What are you, _Us Weekly_? It’s none of our business,” she snapped. “They’re allowed to decide whether or not they want anyone else to know. Who Derek and Stiles screw doesn’t affect anyone but them.”

     “You don’t know how it works,” Erica growled, eyes hard on Derek. Stiles wasn’t terribly glad to see Derek’s prediction had been correct about her taking it the hardest out of everyone; aside from Scott, that is. She was as defensive of Derek as a girl might be of her own father, which was a weird and creepy comparison to make, but the best one Stiles could come up with. He supposed that made him the guy trying to steal her daddy away. She continued, saying, “Derek’s the one who taught us an Alpha doesn’t just make choices for himself; he makes choices for the entire pack.” She glanced at her boyfriend. “Right, Boyd?”

     Looking none too thrilled to be put on the spot, Boyd shot an apologetic look at Stiles and then shrugged. “Okay, an Alpha’s decisions _do_ affect the rest of us,” he conceded, “but I’m kind of with Lydia on this one—I don’t see why the two of them being involved would cause problems for anyone. Not unless they broke up or a rival pack found a way to use Stiles against Derek.”

     “Gee, that doesn’t sound like a big deal at all,” Erica retorted. “Guess I was wrong and Derek should just get to fuck whoever he wants regardless of the outcome.”

     With an exasperated roll of his eyes, Stiles finally spoke up. Something told him this could go on all afternoon unless one of them got the conversation back on track. “This isn’t the Middle Ages, guys,” he said, “where the prince’s body is the property of the fucking state.”

     Erica sneered back at him. “No, you just think he’s _your_ property, right?”

     “Oh my _God_ ,” Stiles exclaimed, throwing his hands up. “Are you even listening to yourself?”

     “This isn’t just about how the pack is affected,” Scott countered, glaring between Erica and Stiles. “I couldn’t care less who Derek gets it on with, but I expect better from you, man. It’s about honesty.”

     “Uh, is either one of you going to explain what’s actually going on at some point?” interrupted Isaac. He shrugged in an offhanded way, then tucked his fists into his armpits like this whole conversation couldn’t make him more uncomfortable. “Kind of hard to argue about what’s right or wrong when we don’t even know the story yet. Derek?”

     “Ask Stiles,” Derek said quietly, not budging from his closed-off position in the corner. “I appreciate that you want to hear the full truth from your Alpha, but he should be the one to explain it.”

     “That’s such a freaking cop-out!” Jackson yelled, earning himself another swat from Lydia. “Way to pass the buck, fearless leader.”

     Derek’s eyes glinted at him in warning, which was enough to make Jackson shrink back even before Derek said, “Shut the fuck up, Jackson. I’ll deal with you later.”

     Stiles sighed. Jackson had a point, though, since a cop-out was exactly what it sounded like. But not only did he know Derek better than that, he had a slightly better grasp on the situation. Enough, at least, to appreciate that Derek wasn’t foisting the responsibility of providing an explanation onto someone else; rather, he was giving Stiles the opportunity to decide where they went with this, letting him know he had Derek’s support no matter how he chose to spin the story.

     Of course, that meant Stiles also had the option of coming clean and telling everyone exactly how he and Derek had started sleeping together in the first place, but he didn’t think he could do that to either of them. Not so much because he was embarrassed about wanting to lose his virginity, but because he knew it could affect Derek’s standing in the pack’s regard. Especially with idiots like Jackson spouting defiance at the best of times, if Derek were to be seen as making decisions that could negatively affect the welfare of the entire pack, they’d have far bigger problems to deal with than where he was putting his dick. No one knew more than Stiles how hard Derek had worked to put all that behind him after his disastrous first year as Alpha. Stiles met his eyes and tried to pick up on some sense of what Derek wanted him to do with this, but nothing was forthcoming.

     Well, it looked like they’d be having a talk later, was all. Taking a deep breath, he steeled himself and said, “Derek and I are dating. It’s only been going on a few weeks.” To Derek he pointedly added, “Sorry, dude. I know you didn’t want to say anything yet,” with a promise in his eyes to settle this as soon as they were alone. At least he hoped it came across that way.

     Derek paused, then nodded, which reassured Stiles a little. “We didn’t expect it to stay a secret forever,” he said. But that they’d kind of hoped it would went unspoken.

     “Am I the only one who’s surprised this didn’t happen sooner?” asked Lydia, raising her hand. She sounded so bored with the conversation that Stiles almost wanted to laugh. Almost. Leave it to Lydia to put their petty dramas into perspective. “After two years watching your endless eyefucking and silent conversations, I seriously thought this was something we’d have dealt with ages ago. Still, congratulations on pulling your heads out of your asses, I guess. I’ll keep an eye out for the wedding invitation in the mail.”

     At that, Stiles blushed. It was one thing to pretend like he and Derek were finally consummating their epic love, and quite another to hear someone address, with Lydia’s typical lack of tact, the tension he and Derek had never actually resolved between themselves. In all honestly, they’d done little more than give it a different name. While he tried to feel comforted over the fact that he wasn’t the only one imagining things, it meant they were probably going to have to skirt some awkward subjects at some point. Moreover, Stiles didn’t know what it said about his own motivations for going to Derek in the first place, or Derek’s reasons for agreeing, for that matter. Until now, Stiles had been doing a pretty good job avoiding further examination on the subject.

     “What happens if you split up and end up hating each other?” Erica demanded, still petulant. “One of you would have to leave the pack. And it’s the one whose name ends in ‘-iles’.”

     Derek grunted. “I don’t see how that’s remotely different than if anyone else broke up. We’ve dealt with Scott and Allison being on the outs more times than I care to remember, and that worked out just fine. Stop being childish.”

     “Does this mean Stiles is moving in?” asked Isaac.

     “No,” Stiles and Derek said at the same time, shooting frantic looks at each other. Then Derek added, “I’m through talking about this. Stiles, I suggest you do the same. They’ve already gotten way more than they need or deserve to know.” Shooting one last, scathing look at his pack, Derek stalked out of the room. A second later they heard the back door slam from the kitchen, the one that led out to Derek’s workshop at the far end of the yard.

     Stiles glanced after him, pressing his lips together to keep from offering any more frantic explanations. “I should—” he began, gesturing, then took off in the direction Derek had gone.

     Crossing the backyard in bare feet was no picnic, and he skipped across the lawn like he was walking over hot coals instead of cold, damp grass. As predicted, Stiles found Derek sitting in the workshop on a partially finished chair, ramrod straight and his hands on his knees, brooding impressively. He glanced up when Stiles entered the shed and shut the door behind him, but didn’t say anything. The neutral territory of sawdust and piles of reclaimed wood offset the smell of sex Stiles immediately noticed on them both, clinging to hair and skin and clothing. He felt embarrassed and ashamed of himself, not knowing how he’d ever thought they might get away with fooling around beneath the radar. Stiles considered it might be time to confront the fact that he was a complete fucking idiot.

     Suddenly unsure of their boundaries, Stiles stopped a few feet short of Derek and leaned against a tall workbench, and on second thought hopped up so he was sitting on the countertop, legs swinging. After a torturous pause, he started to say, “I’m—” but Derek lifted a hand to silence him. A moment later he reached over and flipped the switch on a shop vac that lay discarded nearby, and immediately the loud hum of the machine filled the workshop. Stiles furrowed his brow for a moment, confused, but when Derek moved forwards and stepped between Stiles’s legs, bringing their faces closer together, he got it. Derek was making sure their conversation couldn’t be overheard from the big house.

     “I’m so sorry,” Stiles said, starting again, and in a rush of wanting Derek to believe how much he meant it, he reached out and fisted Derek’s T-shirt. He leaned in and pressed his lips to Derek’s ear. “I just blurted it out and I never, ever meant to drag you in this far.”

     Stiles felt Derek shake his head before he curled his hand around Stiles’s. “I’m not pissed at you.”

     “I don’t see how that’s possible.” Stiles wasn’t ready to stop touching him yet, needing a sense of closeness, of comfort, even more than when he’d shown up here today, so the next best thing he could think of was to release Derek’s shirt and wrap his arms around his neck instead. He dug his fingers into Derek’s hair and continued speaking into his ear, striving to be heard over the sound of the vacuum. “This is _not_ what you bargained for, dude, I know it isn’t. You didn’t sign up for a fake boyfriend and a relationship when you agreed to have sex with me. Deny it all you want, but I know the truth.”

     Sighing, Derek slipped his arms around Stiles’s waist and pressed his face into his neck. Withdrawing a moment later, he didn’t look any happier, but Stiles had to admit he didn’t look like he was on the verge of a murderous rampage. “Stiles, I know you know I was giving you permission to tell them that when I handed you the reins,” Derek said with admirable patience. “Otherwise I would’ve answered the question myself. You know me better than that.” He offered a crooked smile that, admittedly, made Stiles’s heart skip a beat or three. “Asking you to keep this a secret was kind of selfish in the first place. It’s not the end of the world, having them think we’re together.”

     Yeah, and it wasn’t self-serving at all for Stiles to have fabricated a romance to hide how pathetic he was. By that reasoning, both he and Derek were selfish for different reasons (though personally he didn’t agree that Derek’s request to keep things quiet was unreasonable), but somehow they’d still met in the middle, tacitly in agreement that this thing, whatever it was, belonged to them and no one else. Stiles couldn’t deal with thinking about what it said about him that he was more capable of lying about a relationship than telling the truth about it to himself. It was a double blind. So instead he tried to play it off with—what else? Sarcasm.

     “Gee, thanks,” he snorted.

     “No problem.” Derek shrugged, wry humour in his eyes. “On the bright side, you won’t have to go bathing in Mountain Ash any more, and I won’t have to keep going to increasingly desperate lengths to hide the fact that I smell like you all the time.”

     “You never did explain to me your method of burying a scent,” Stiles said.

     To Stiles’s surprise, Derek looked incredibly awkward for a moment. “Trust me, you’d freak out if you knew. Or you’d let it slip to one of the others, and before I knew it I’d have a whole pack thinking they can get away with shit under my roof.”

     “I promise to take the secret with me to my grave,” Stiles intoned. “I swear on our fake relationship.”

     Derek sighed, still looking uncomfortable. “It usually involves going out and hunting something. You know, getting good and bloody. Among other things.”

     “Oh, ew.” There was no stopping the horrified expression that crept onto Stiles’s face, and he shuddered. “Are you telling me you’ve been rolling around in the entrails of cute woodland creatures after every time we make out? And I’ve been kissing that mouth?”

     Another shrug. “You asked.”

     They sat in silence for a couple minutes and Stiles felt Derek running soothing hands up and down his spine, managing to drum up all the same feelings of safety and contentment from before, even if Stiles was still kind of regretting the information he now knew about “burying a scent.” Laying his head on Derek’s shoulder, he entertained himself with pressing lazy kisses to the side of his throat until a thought occurred to him.

     He lifted his head and met Derek’s eyes. “So if you’re really okay with us pretending to date each other, why did you look like someone keyed your car throughout that whole conversation? You could’ve given me some hint you weren’t secretly dying on the inside.”

     Hesitating for a brief second, Derek gave a quiet sigh, which he followed with a gentle scrape of nails down the length of Stiles’s spine through his shirt. “I kind of liked how it was before, when it was just you and me,” he admitted.

     Stiles tried to meet his eyes but Derek wouldn’t, focusing somewhere off on the middle distance beyond the shed window. Determined, though he couldn’t figure out why, Stiles forcibly drew Derek’s gaze back to his own with gentle fingers against his cheekbone and kept them there until Derek continued talking.

     “You’re not the only one who has no idea what he’s doing here, and it was easier to make it up as we went without an audience. You know, figuring things out together. Learning stuff about each other.” Derek huffed in a way that sounded self-deprecating to Stiles’s ears. “It’s not news that I feel a lot more comfortable showing you things I don’t want other people to see, even the pack. There’s no way we’d have gotten here otherwise.”

     Stiles smiled in spite of himself and indulged himself in a huge way, smoothing his fingers over Derek’s eyebrows and forehead like a reward, trying to ease away the lines of concern that lingered there. “That’s kind of ridiculously sweet, Sourwolf.” He chuckled, but it was a poor cover for the twisting of his gut. It wasn’t that Derek had never said so much all at once before, but never with such a painful lack of defensiveness. Just because he didn’t hear it often, didn’t mean Stiles couldn’t recognize when he was being told the truth. When he was being asked to keep it safe. Forcing a note of cheer into his voice, he said, “You’re going to make some fake boyfriend or girlfriend really happy someday.”

     “Yeah, but not today.” Derek lifted his eyebrows and jerked his chin in the direction of the door, which Stiles took to mean he was indicating the group inside the main house. Or at least Stiles assumed they were still around. “You know you have to go talk to Scott about this, right? Out of everyone, he’s the one who’s going to have the hardest time accepting what we just told them. Or what you _didn’t_ tell him, as the case may be.”

     “Ugh, fuck.” Stiles barely resisted rolling his eyes and gave an unhappy squirm against Derek’s lap instead. “Maybe I would’ve if he wasn’t acting like such a little bitch about everything these days.”

     “He’s just worried about you and where you guys stand,” Derek said, far too reasonably. “And maybe a little jealous. Don’t even deny you felt the same way when he started dating Allison.”

     “Who died and made you Dr. Phil?” snarked Stiles. “If I have to hash it out with Scott, then you oughta be having a sit-down chat with the rest of your pack, too. Erica looked like she was thirty seconds away from going full-out bunny boiler on you. Which I don’t get at all, considering she’s got Boyd, but—”

     “She worries,” Derek said, sharply enough that Stiles knew it wasn’t his place to go criticizing a dynamic he didn’t totally understand. “It’s normal for pack females to be overprotective of the other wolves, especially a single Alpha. Contrary to appearances, she’s been bugging me to find a partner for a while. I just don’t think this is what she had in mind.”

     “So I’m not good enough for you, is what you’re saying.” This conversation was fast getting irrational. Stiles didn’t even know what he was getting defensive about, considering all of this was hypothetical and then some. But he’d kind of gotten used to thinking of himself as not just Derek’s protector, but someone who could guide the rest of the pack, too. Maybe that’d been a tad hopeful on his part. “I’m the one she used to have a crush on, you know.”

     “If you want to be the one to tell her that, be my guest.”

     Smirking, Derek tilted his head in such a way that Stiles knew meant he was angling for a kiss, and since when did he get to be so good at knowing each of Derek’s private, affectionate tells? Sure, he was better than most at reading Derek’s expressions with an ease borne of long practice, but he very much doubted Derek had taken to suddenly broadcasting his emotions for anyone to pick up on. Which could only mean Stiles alone was responsible for paying too much attention, trying to catalogue everything Derek did like some kind of obsessed scholar learning an archaic language. He didn’t know when it’d started to mean so much that he, and he alone, could speak it, and maybe he understood Erica’s possessiveness a little better than he cared to admit.

     But instead of thinking too much about it, he decided to give Derek what he wanted, scooting closer towards the edge of the workbench so their lips sealed together as easily as their bodies, comfortable and warm like an old sweater you pulled out every winter and wanted to wear all the time, day in and day out. He wondered if Derek could still taste himself on Stiles’s tongue, and the thought filled him with such need that he broke off with a small moan, intending to stop this before they could get out of hand. Again.

     “I need to talk to Scott,” he lamented, pressing his nose against Derek’s temple. The reminder was for himself as much as Derek. To his immense satisfaction, Derek gave a disgruntled growl. “I don’t want to, but I’ve gotta.”

     “Will you be okay?” Derek pulled away to ask.

     “I don’t know. Maybe. I hope so. He seemed pretty mad.”

     Surprising Stiles, Derek pressed a kiss to his forehead before he stepped back to let Stiles jump down from the countertop, keeping his hands braced around Stiles’s waist so he couldn’t stumble. “Just try to remember where he’s coming from,” he suggested. “Scott may be an idiot but he’s never intentionally wanted to hurt anyone, let alone you. He just doesn’t know how to express his anger in such a way that other people don’t want to punch him.”

     That drew a surprised laugh from Stiles. “Coming from you, that’s rich.”

     Derek’s smile was small, but it was definitely there. If Stiles was honest it kind of made this afternoon’s whole gong show almost worth it. “I figured you might think so. If you want to trade places and deal with Erica and Jackson instead, be my guest.”

     “Uh, no thanks. Despite what everyone might think, I have no desire to end up in the hospital. If someone’s gonna rip you a new one over this, at least you’ll heal.” Reluctantly Stiles started to move towards the door, but he paused with his fingers upon the handle. “Hey, Derek?” It was a useless thing to say, since Derek was already looking at him, but nevertheless he inclined his head for Stiles to continue. “Thanks for having my back.”

     “You don’t need to thank me for that.”

     “Yeah, I do.” Stiles smiled thinly, promising himself he’d find a better way to convey his gratitude later, maybe when things calmed down a bit and they could just _be_. “I’ll send the puppies out to you. In the meantime, wish me luck.”

 

+

 

     To Stiles’s relief, the wolves were all too happy to leave him and Scott alone when he told them Derek wanted to see them out back—presumably they’d go for a run or something before flinging themselves into a puppy pile, which was how most tensions got resolved—and Allison had already accepted a ride home from Lydia. Even Erica seemed willing to set aside her anger at Stiles to avoid getting caught in the crossfire. It sure beat having to chase everyone out in order to talk privately with his friend, but Stiles couldn’t deny his stomach clenched unpleasantly at the sight of Scott waiting for him in the living room, jaw set like he was prepared for some shit to go down. The last thing Stiles wanted to do was fight, but the moue of discontent on Scott’s face didn’t bode well for their chances of a chill discussion of the facts.

     Sitting down next to Scott on the couch seemed too personal for the conversation they were about to have, so Stiles picked a chair opposite him, crossing his legs beneath him so his feet would be less cold. He plucked at the frayed hem of his jeans distractedly. “I guess we have a few things to talk about,” he said after a lengthy silence, when it became clear Scott wasn’t going to start the ball rolling.

     “I guess we do,” he answered mulishly. “But I really just have one thing to ask: when were you ever gonna tell me about you and Derek?”

     Not wanting to answer too quickly, Stiles decided he owed it to Scott—and himself—to think about the question seriously. He’d begun to do so in fits and spurts since he and Derek started fooling around, wondering how bad it could really be to trust his secret to someone like Scott, whom he’d do anything for, but each time he’d come to the uncomfortable realization that this was one truth he might not be able to share.

     Scott was used to seeing Stiles grudgingly accept his lack of a love life, despite how much he complained about it, but then it’d always been easier for Stiles to lament his weaknesses to Scott than talk about the parts of himself he wanted to change. How sometimes he was just a dumb kid who wanted, as much as anyone else, to make himself better, different. Stronger. He couldn’t admit out loud that it was easier to show that side of himself to Derek, who understood the concept of self-loathing pretty well. And it wasn’t even because Scott might tell Allison, but rather that Stiles suspected it might make them both even more aware of the chasm that had opened up between them recently. It’d seemed better to keep quiet, although Stiles didn’t know for whom that was the bigger kindness anymore. He was selfish sometimes. He could be selfish a lot.

     “I wanted to,” he finally said, as close to honesty as he could make it. “I thought about telling you a lot of times, I really did, but I wasn’t exaggerating back there when I said it’s not something that’s been going on very long.” Stiles met Scott’s eyes and willed him to understand. “When you met Allison, I remember how badly you wanted to shout it from the rooftops, man, but with Derek it isn’t really like that. I was excited about it, sure, but I also kind of wanted to enjoy it on my own before we told everyone else.”

     “Since when did I become ‘everyone else’?” Scott fired back. “You’re my best friend. I tell you stuff I don’t want anyone else to know, ever.”

     Stiles grimaced, hating that they were going to have to go down this road again, but seeing no way around it. “That’s not true,” he sighed. “You’ve kept plenty from me over the years that’s pissed me off.” He shook his head. “That’s not really the point here, though. If you want to know when you became ‘everyone else’, well, I’d say that probably happened when you went from just being Scott, my best bud, to Scott-and-Allison, the guy who always has something better to do than spend time with his loser friend, Stiles.”

     At that, Scott screwed up his face into a conflicted expression. “First of all, I always worshipped the ground you walked on, man—you’ve never been the loser friend to me. And secondly, are you honestly telling me this is because I’m dating Allison? Seriously?” His laugh was hollow. “This must’ve been a really long time coming, because it’s not like she and I just got together yesterday.”

     “You’re right—it has been a long time coming,” Stiles agreed, trying to keep the anger out of his voice. “I’ve watched Allison become your reason for living while I got left behind, but I never spoke up because I knew what she meant to you, knew I could never expect you to choose between a buddy and the love of your life. I’ve never resented her for that. Still, being the third wheel kind of forces you to re-evaluate the sanctity of the stuff we used to tell each other in confidence. Maybe you never stopped to think about it that way because you knew I didn’t have anyone else to tell your secrets, even if I wanted to.”

     “I have _never_ betrayed your confidence to anyone,” Scott protested, and Stiles just gave him a hard look. Guiltily, Scott shut up, because they both knew Stiles didn’t have to be a werewolf to catch him in a lie.

     “You might see Allison as an extension of yourself, Scott, but I don’t share that view. I love her and I’m happy she’s in your life, but she’s not my _you_. Never has been, never will be.”

     “No, you have Derek for that.”

     Unable to stop himself, Stiles shot up from his seat and balled his hands into fists, stalking over to the fireplace so he wouldn’t catch himself getting even angrier off the look of smug indignation on Scott’s face. “Is that so bad, needing more than just you or, hell, my dad to confide in? And what’s pissing you off more, anyway?” he demanded. “The fact that I finally have that kind of person for myself, or the fact that it’s _Derek_?”

     There wasn’t an immediate response to that, and when Stiles turned back around to face him, he found Scott chewing his lip. “I’ve always rooted for you in the romance department, Stiles,” he said eventually. “No one wanted to see you succeed with Lydia more than me.”

     The sound that scratched out of Stiles’s throat was an ugly laugh. “Scott, the Lydia obsession was borderline creepy from the start. We both knew it. And of course you rooted for me. Rooting for me was easy, because you knew I didn’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell of scoring. You proved that the time you made out with her.”

     Scott blushed and had the good grace to look ashamed, even of something he’d done years ago. “Maybe so, but Derek is just… Derek.”

     It hurt to hear Scott agree with him about Lydia, even by declining to disagree. But Stiles had realized all those same things for himself years ago anyway, so he forced himself to dismiss the thought in favour of focusing on what was actually important. “Derek’s your Alpha,” Stiles reminded him. “Your leader. Someone you trust. Do you need me to go on?”

     Scott met his eyes levelly, and his voice was very cold as he said, “He’s not my leader by choice.”

     “And I guess that’s the real kicker here, isn’t it?” he retorted. “That I’m involved with the one person who’s kept you from running your own show, being your own Alpha. And I don’t know who you blame for that more—Derek, or me.”

     “I’ve never blamed you for any of the crap that’s happened since I got turned, Stiles,” Scott insisted. “You aren’t a werewolf, and you aren’t responsible for the messed-up stuff you’ve gotten caught in the middle of, not ever. I know that. But Derek _is_ responsible, and somehow I’m supposed to just forget about all the times he’s lied to me, used me? Used _us_? No way. It’s not that simple.”

     Stiles shook his head, mind racing to try and figure out how the hell he was going to get everything off his chest without breaking Scott’s heart twice in one day. But even as the thought crossed his mind, he had to stop and wonder—was breaking his own heart, or letting Scott break it, worth sparing his friend’s feelings?

     “I believe you believe that, bro,” he said, “but this is our problem and always has been. Your baggage with Derek is just that— _your_ baggage, and therefore more important than anyone else’s. Maybe he wasn’t always a good Alpha or a good friend, but he’s changed. He made a place for you even after all the times you rejected him; he made a place for _me_. And he happens to be someone I care about a lot, someone who gives a fuck about me, but I’m supposed to just… ignore whatever else is going on with my own life and what I want, because you take issue with the fact that my needs don’t perfectly align with yours.” Stiles shrugged and lowered his voice, meeting Scott’s shocked eyes with the full brunt of his exhausted stare. “Because once again, my own happiness—fuck, my need to be something to someone—barely even pings your fucking radar.”

     For a second Scott looked too angry to speak, but then he finally said, “I don’t know how to not be offended by anything you just said. You’re my best friend, and you mean something to plenty of people, myself included. Of course I want you to be happy.”

     “As long as it doesn’t interfere with your plans, right? Let’s face it, this wouldn’t be the first time you’ve thrown me under the bus in your quest to be top dog.”

     “I joined this pack for _you_ ,” Scott spat. “I never accepted Derek as my Alpha, never wanted to, but when you came crawling to him for protection I went along with it.”

     “No, you went along with it because you knew the Alpha pack would eviscerate you if you stayed an Omega, and you had no one else on your side.” This, too, was an old argument, but Stiles had a feeling it was about to take a different turn than it had in the past, when Scott and Stiles still cared about holding back their real feelings in order to spare each other.

     “I was _supposed_ to have you,” Scott flung out.

     “Jesus, Scott.” Stiles rolled his eyes up at the ceiling in exasperation. “If I hadn’t gone to Derek myself when Peter threatened to turn me, you probably would’ve just taken your chances on your own. Even if it meant me getting hurt. I’m sorry that I didn’t want to accept dying or watching my best friend die because of his own stupidity. This… legendary fucking McCall stubbornness.”

     “And how much of that choice had to do with the crush you’ve had on Derek for forever, huh?” Scott fired back. “Maybe you only made it official today, but I don’t buy for a second this is something that sprung up overnight between you two. Lydia was right—we’ve all watched how are you are together for ages. It was only ever a question of _when_ , not _if_. Probably even since before you joined Derek’s pack officially.”

     Stiles swallowed, fighting the sudden onset of dryness in his mouth, and for a moment was too floored by the brutal, irrefutable truth of Scott’s words to respond, in protest or otherwise. Not only could he not deny it and risk blowing his cover with Derek, which right now seemed so stupid and arbitrary that he barely knew how to factor it into this discussion with Scott at all, but he couldn’t stand there and lie about his feelings either. Even if Scott couldn’t right now discern the difference between the effect of Stiles’s anger and dishonesty on his heart rate, Stiles knew. He might not totally know his own mind yet, didn’t totally understand how this thing with Derek had grown legs and run away on him, the fact remained that Scott was right. About what Stiles wanted with Derek—had wanted, however much he’d managed to ignore it over the years—he was right. And Stiles was a lot of things, but he wasn’t someone who could apologize for caring about someone, for loving big. No matter who they happened to be.

     “What do you want me to say?” he asked quietly, turning his palms up. Scott’s eyes were hard on his face, but somehow he managed to meet them steadily. “The stuff you just accused me of—how am I supposed to apologize for that? ‘I’m sorry that Derek makes me feel like you do around Allison—I’m sorry I want that for myself’?” He shook his head. “No, man. I can’t apologize for that, not even for the sake of saving our friendship. The fact that you seem to want me to is just…” He got caught on a small note of pain that rose up from his throat unbidden. “It makes me seriously question whether there’s anything left to salvage between us.”

     “Stiles, that’s not—”

     But Stiles was already turning away, slipping out of the living room and then the front door, fumbling in his pocket for the keys to his Jeep even though his jacket, shoes, and socks were all still upstairs in Derek’s room. He waffled for a moment on the porch, debating whether to run back upstairs and collect his things, but ultimately decided, _Fuck it_. Twigs and stones pinched the soles of his feet as he crossed the driveway. He barely noticed them. Stiles opened the door to his car and swung himself up into the front seat before he could even think about the fact that he was walking away from Scott after he’d said a thing like _that_. Turned his back on someone who’d always been there for him, and whom he’d always been there for.

     The heater was busted and Stiles shivered the whole way home, toes like ice against the pedals, fingers cramping with the chill. But not once did he consider turning around to go back to the house, happy to suffer a little discomfort in order to avoid looking at Scott’s face a moment longer, trying to reconcile himself to how someone who’d meant so much for so long could make him make him feel so guilty and angry and tired all at once. He tried to make himself see what they were struggling so hard to hold on to, if they’d lost their grip on everything but history and a handful of old memories. He came up empty.

 

+

 

     His dad was seated at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee and some work files spread out in front of him when Stiles entered the house through the back door; exactly what he’d hoped to avoid by not coming in the front. Glancing up, Jack took one look at Stiles’s bare feet and lack of outwear and immediately raised both his eyebrows, coffee cup lifted halfway to his face.

     “Bit cold out to be making a fashion statement, isn’t it?” he asked after a long pause.

     Busted, Stiles opened his mouth as he considered brushing it off, then closed it again when he couldn’t come up with a convincing enough deflection. Instead he crossed the kitchen to the fridge. The cool tiles actually felt warm in comparison to his feet. Opening the fridge door, he stood in front of the shelves of food for several long moments, staring at a plate of leftover pizza, containers of the casserole he’d left to defrost for tonight’s dinner, crispers stocked with fresh vegetables he more or less planned to force-feed to his dad, and couldn’t decide what to take or why he’d come to look in here in the first place. He was far from hungry; in fact, felt more like vomiting. Plus, in nothing but a thin button-down, the refrigerated air made him shiver more. But Stiles couldn’t bring himself to turn away and face his father.

     Though he was conscious of Jack’s eyes watching him the whole time, he didn’t give up and close the door until after a firm “Stiles” prompted him. Dragging out a chair from the table, Stiles sat down and stuffed his hands between his thighs in a feeble attempt to warm them up. His dad sighed, standing, then went into the living room. He returned carrying a blanket, which he draped around Stiles’s shoulders.

     Eyes gentle in the way they always got when he worried about his son, Jack sat back down and pulled off his glasses, leaning across the table. “Is there something you want to talk about, kid? I don’t know what concerns me more—the fact that you look about five seconds away from hypothermia, or that you don’t seem inclined to eat. Did your exam not go okay?”

     Stiles shook his head no. Staring fixedly at his knees, he sucked in a breath and then blurted, “Derek and I are dating,” before he could lose his nerve, which ironically looked a lot like coming to his senses and realizing this might not be the way to save his father from an early heart attack. “We’re dating, and I think I might’ve ruined my friendship with Scott because of it.”

     To Jack’s credit, the revelation didn’t shock him—outwardly, at least—as much as Stiles would’ve thought, but then again, maybe being a sheriff in Beacon Hills made it difficult for anything to come as too big of a surprise. Compared to all the crap they’d seen over the years, his son’s sexuality crisis probably rated as pretty normal. Welcome, even. Still, the last time Stiles had tried to have this conversation, it hadn’t gone so well. According to his dad, at least two years ago, there was no possible way Stiles could be queer. Well, surprise.

     Jack sighed and relaxed back in his chair, expression both thoughtful and resigned. “I had a feeling this might be coming,” he said after a long pause spent studying Stiles’s face, and Stiles jerked in his chair.

     “Wha—you did?”

     “Yeah.” With a vague gesture, Jack offered a thin, humourless smile. “I once said there’s no way you could be gay because of how you dress, but your wardrobe has been pretty spiffy these days.” Stiles didn’t think for a second he was going to slip the hook with nothing more than a quip like that and a twinkle in his dad’s eye. No, the second Jack opened his mouth to speak again, Stiles knew the real punchline was still coming. “Plus, don’t think I haven’t noticed that you’ve been coming home with all kinds of impressive stubble burn lately.” Stiles blushed, and that seemed to make Jack’s smile widen into something more genuine. “There’s a pretty short list of folks who could’ve done that, seeing as how most of the people you hang out with—yourself included—aren’t quite able to grow a full beard just yet.”

     “I could’ve met an older guy somewhere else,” Stiles said petulantly, not knowing why he felt the need to be difficult.

     “Sure, you could’ve,” Jack answered reasonably, “though I shudder at the thought. But it’s no secret how much time you spend with Hale. The phrase ‘joined at the hip’ comes to mind. Kind of like you and Scott, once upon a time. Except, to my knowledge at least, you’ve never looked at Scott the way you do at Derek.”

     Yet another person who’d noticed something Stiles hadn’t. Absently rubbing his jaw, which was almost certainly red and irritated from Derek’s beard even now, he cast a wary look at his father that was met without embarrassment. “I had to tell you,” he said, meaning every ounce of it, even if the backstory was a bit more complicated than he let on. Somehow, though, telling his dad that he and Derek were in a relationship felt like the most honest thing he’d said all afternoon. “I can’t say for sure how or where things will go, but this is kind of a big deal in my life right now. So I hope you aren’t mad, because Derek’s pretty important to me.”

     “I know he is,” said Jack in a resigned voice. He furrowed his brow. “Why would you think I’d be mad about a thing like that? About you wanting to be with someone, even Derek?”

     The question startled a quiet huff out of Stiles. “Seriously? Derek’s been on your shit list almost since he moved back to Beacon Hills. Okay, yeah, you’ve started to see him in a different light since I told you about all the werewolf stuff, but I know he still isn’t your favourite person in the world.” He tugged the blanket tighter around his shoulders and looked back down at his knees. “I didn’t enjoy the prospect of disappointing you even more, but. I guess I just needed to tell someone who I thought might not hate me outright because of it.”

     “Oh, son.” Quite unexpectedly, Jack got up out of his chair and came round the table to put his arms around Stiles in a firm hug, pulling him back against his chest. Stiles made a wounded noise and squeezed his eyes tightly shut when the threat of tears seemed to spring up out of nowhere. He wrapped one of his hands around Jack’s forearm that lay braced against his chest, and felt a kiss pressed to the top of his head. “I won’t deny you’ve given me more than a few scares over the years, but there is nothing, literally nothing you could do that would make me love you any less. And _hate_ you? Out of the question. You’re my favourite person on this planet, do you understand? There’s no changing that.”

     “Not even if I’m dating an acquitted murderer who also happens to be a werewolf?”

     “Not even then. I’m not thrilled about the age difference or Derek’s penchant for attracting trouble, but if nothing else, he looks out for his own. So if you’re happy, Stiles, then I’m happy for you. That’s all there is to it.” Sighing—this seemed to be one of those conversations that made his dad sigh a lot—Jack sat back down, albeit this time on the chair next to Stiles, which he pulled a little closer so he could curl a warm hand around the back of Stiles’s neck, drawing their heads closer together. “And this may be besides the point, but I respect that you came to me with this despite being worried how I’d react.”

     Stiles shrugged, though he felt anything but blasé about the sentiment. “I knew you’d find out eventually. Since trying to keep it a secret blew up so spectacularly the first time, I wanted you to hear it from me first.”

     “How long have you and Derek been involved, exactly?” asked Jack, lifting a critical eyebrow.

     “Only a couple weeks.” Stiles tried to roll his eyes good-naturedly, despite the shrewd cast of Jack’s expression as he made a deliberate show of deciding whether or not he needed Stiles to pass along any second-hand threats to Derek with regards to Stiles’s age.

     “And I suppose I don’t need to ask whether or not you’re being responsible.”

     “Please, for the love of all that is good and holy, don’t.”

     “It’s not an unreasonable question,” Jack pointed out, “when my kid comes home smelling of sex and looking like he got mauled by a wild animal. Although that still doesn’t explain what happened to your shoes or your jacket.” Stiles didn’t think it was possible for him to turn a deeper shade of red. “Really, you should count yourself lucky I’m grilling you about whether or not you’re using condoms instead of whether or not you and Derek have been getting up to things I’d rather not think about under this roof.”

     Stiles waved his hands and momentarily covered his eyes. “Ugh, dad, we haven’t—”

     “I’m not even sure there’d be a point,” he continued, as if Stiles hadn’t protested. “Trust me, I’m suddenly all too aware that Hale has his own place, and that you’ve been staying the night there since long before you were considered of legal age. Derek’s aware of how statutory rape works, right?”

     “You could stop enjoying this so much,” deadpanned Stiles, though he was smiling kind of in spite of himself. “It’s seriously only been two weeks, and Derek’s perfectly aware of how many guns you have access to. And so am I, for that matter.”

     His dad nodded and moved his hand to pat Stiles’s shoulder. “Good. Just making sure. And try not to worry too much about Scott. He’ll come around eventually. Scott’s had his moments over the years, but he’s smart enough enough to know how important your friendship is to both of you. Whatever happened between you… I know you’ll figure it out eventually. It wouldn’t be a friendship without the occasional falling out.”

     “It’s more than that this time, I think,” said Stiles slowly, dragging the heel of his palm across his eye. “We both said some pretty shitty things, and I might’ve told him I didn’t think there was anything worth salvaging between us.”

     Jack studied him quietly, and Stiles was momentarily glad his concerns weren’t being dismissed out of hand. “Serious words. Did you mean that?”

     “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I mean, obviously I hope that’s not the case? But things with Scott—I don’t know that I can rely on him the same way I once did. And he acted like me dating Derek is somehow selfish, or that I’m a bad person for wanting to keep it on the down low for a little while. As if Scott hasn’t been wrapped around Allison’s little finger for almost three years.” Scowling, he added, “People are always saying how high school relationships never last in the long term, but maybe the same thing’s true about friendships. Maybe things with Scott and I have just... run their course.”

     “Stiles—” Jack ran a hand through his hair, which was a bit more of an awkward gesture than Stiles was anticipating, and then he settled it upon the table before drumming his fingers briefly. “I know that losing your mom has made it tough not to feel overprotective of the people who are important to you—God knows I haven’t been a great example of that either, and I can’t help but feel partly responsible for passing along the trait. But when it comes to your friends, sometimes you gotta remember there’s a time to hold on and a time to let go.”

     “I have let go!” Stiles protested, cheeks burning now for an entirely different reason—a mix of embarrassment and anger. A part of him wished his dad placed less stock in the idea of tough love, but another part of him accepted he wouldn’t have started this conversation if he didn’t, on some level, want to hear the honest truth about himself, however ugly. “I saw really early on how it was gonna be with Allison, and I didn’t stand in his way even though I was getting the shaft. Same as when he started spending the rest of his free time with Isaac. But I kept my mouth shut for the most part and didn’t rock the boat, and still stuck around to answer Scott’s every beck and call.”

     “Did you mention this to him at any point before now?”

     “Of course I did! For all difference it made. Nothing changed.”

     “And you’re obviously still hurt about it,” his dad pointed out. “But that’s kind of my point. I’m not saying Scott is right, because that kid pretty much epitomizes a one-track mind, but we can’t change people no matter how much we might want to. The best we can do is to say how we feel and hope the other person responds accordingly. If they don’t, they don’t—then you move on. But you’re not one for moving on, Stiles, especially when it concerns the folks you care about. Loyalty is an admirable quality, but the downside is feeling like something’s owed to you when the other person doesn’t meet you halfway. We both know how long you chased after Lydia, son, and it wasn’t because she was deliberately leading you on.”

     Knowing how petulant it looked, Stiles folded his arms and glowered at the table. Derek had given him a similar version of this speech a long time ago, when Stiles first started feeling like Scott was slipping away. His response then was the same as now: Stiles might not like his tendency to be this way, but his friends were his family. He’d sooner cut off a body part than walk away from them. “Scott’s a bit different from Lydia,” he said with a scowl. “He’s been my best friend forever.”

     “You’re right. And my guess is he’d say nothing’s changed, if you asked him. From the sounds of it, this is probably the first time he’s ever heard you get really upset about the state of your friendship. You gotta give him some time to think about how he might be in the wrong, give him a chance to apologize. Chances are he’s been feeling equally as jealous about your friendship—more, now—with Derek.” With another pat to Stiles’s shoulder, Jack started to rise from the table. “Scott might not act like he appreciates you, but he does. I wouldn’t hedge any bets that he knows how screwed he’d be without you. Let him stew for a bit and see what happens. It might not be as bad as all that.”

     “Do you think I’ve been too overprotective of Derek? Too clingy?” Stiles asked in a moment of unbearable insecurity, the thought occurring to him out of nowhere. He didn’t quite know if he could agree with his dad’s words without feeling ashamed of himself, as much as wanting to protect his loved ones was something to be ashamed of, but there was such a note of accuracy to the assessment that he was suddenly afraid he’d been the needy friend all this time.

     “I don’t think there’s any such thing as being overprotective where Derek is concerned,” answered Jack without hesitation, shaking his head. Ruefully, he smiled. “He lost everything once, and it wouldn’t surprise me if he still worries about losing everything again. People like that, all you can do is love ’em until they stop expecting the rug to be pulled out from under their feet. He’s lucky to have you, Stiles, because you’ll hold on with both hands. In some ways I guess that’s why I’m not struggling more with the thought of you together, because I know he’d sooner die than let anything happen to you, too.”

     At the mention of the word _love_ , Stiles felt all the blood drain from his cheeks, leaving him pale and lightheaded. He pulled the blanket up around him until only his eyes and the front tuft of his hair was sticking out. “Dad, it’s still too—” he mumbled. “I mean, I don’t know if I remotely feel like—”

     A hand ruffled his hair, which Stiles felt obligate to bat away. “You telling me you’re in it for the stimulating conversation?”

     “What—no! I just…” Stiles wavered, letting out a frustrated huff. He didn’t like having this conversation with his dad standing over him, since it made him feel even more confused and at a loss than he already did. “Being with Derek is terrifying, okay,” he began.

     Not surprisingly, his dad frowned at that. “Then why date him?”

     The question left Stiles gawping. His dad didn’t release his gaze the entire time Stiles struggled with the words, attempting to muddle through the supremely awkward conundrum of trying to make sense of a relationship that technically shouldn’t exist but refused to fade into the background. God knows what he was going to do come September. “Because…” He struggled some more, then eventually came out with the first thing that popped into his head that sounded right. “Because everything else makes more sense when I’m around him,” he admitted in a stilted voice. “Being with Derek is still less terrifying than _not_ being with him.”

     His dad snorted but visibly relaxed, which was _so_ not the answer Stiles expected. “Son, I love you, but you’re an idiot.” Declining to elaborate on that despite Stiles lowering the blanket to gape at him, Jack glanced at the clock on the wall and made an apologetic face. “And as much as I’d like to continue this very engaging round of trying to block out the mental pictures of you and Hale doing anything remotely sexual together, I have to get ready for work.”

     “There’s casserole in the fridge for you to take with you,” Stiles answered automatically, still too stunned about the other thing to address it.

     “Yes, I noticed. Fat-free cheese should be outlawed,” Jack complained, though he was smiling. “Now would you go upstairs and take a hot bath, for Christ’s sake? Another five minutes and I feel like your lips are gonna turn blue. That would really mess with the whole ‘father of the year’ angle I’m working.”

     Sensing an opportunity to pay his father back, which Stiles was never, ever too flabbergasted for, he offered Jack a sickly sweet smile. “I could always give Derek a call. I hear sharing body heat is a pretty good way to—”

     His dad cuffed him round the side of the head and shoved Stiles in the direction of the entryway that led to the stairs. “Yeah, yeah, be a smartass about it while you can. We’ll see how long it lasts when I start expecting Derek to show up for Sunday dinner. A father’s best weapon is always his son’s baby pictures.”

     Ignoring the impulse to shudder, Stiles just smirked and also tamped down the urge to make a remark about how Derek had already seen him naked. He was surprised enough this conversation had taken place with only one reference to his father’s shotgun, but he wasn’t about to look that particular gift horse in the mouth. Instead he turned and closed the distance between him and his dad to wrap him up in a crushing embrace. Jack returned it gladly, arms tight around Stiles’s shoulders, and made no move to pull away when Stiles hung on for another few moments, simply enjoying the closeness and the feeling of comfort he still derived from his dad’s bear hugs.

     When they released one another, Jack was looking at him with an exasperated expression Stiles recognized as fondness. It warmed something in his chest, made this afternoon’s catastrophe feel momentarily less devastating, and Jack quirked a smile as he slapped Stiles on the shoulder. “You’ll be alright, kid,” he said. “Go on. We can talk about this more tomorrow.”

     Smiling back, Stiles readjusted the blanket around himself and made for the stairs.

     In his bedroom, he sighed and deliberated flopping onto his bed for an extended nap, but his dad had a point: he was still chilly and could use cleaning up after his impromptu romp with Derek, and besides which, he had an English midterm coming up in a couple days he needed to start reviewing for, and a take-home exam to complete for history. Luckily he had tomorrow off, but it looked like he was going to have his work cut out for him. He could sleep when he was dead.

     After showering, which had the dual but contradictory effect of warming him up and making him start to feel depressed about his fight with Scott all over again, Stiles changed into a fresh pair of black boxer briefs and a white muscle tee with BEACON HILLS TRACK AND FIELD written across the front in bold letters. Despite not wanting to sleep, after taking an Adderall he climbed into bed with his history exam and his notes with the intention of jotting down an outline before he got distracted watching YouTube videos for the rest of the night. It was best to be realistic about these things.

     He’d been studying for less than three hours and was fighting an increasingly persistent desire to doze off when there came a gentle rap of knuckles against his bedroom window. Stiles glanced up, both surprised and not to see Derek there, and he lifted his eyebrows to indicate Derek could come inside. Admittedly his heart had leapt at the possibility it might be Scott coming to talk to him, but he was more than relieved to see Derek’s face.

     Derek let a gust of cool air in with him before he closed the window behind himself, and Stiles shivered a little through his small smile of welcome. He noticed Derek had someone’s knapsack slung over one shoulder. “Hey,” he said. “Didn’t expect to see you again tonight.”

     With a shrug, Derek set the bag down on the floor next to Stiles’s bed and then climbed on top of the mattress. He reached out and ran his fingers through the hair just above Stiles’s ear. “You left your shoes and your jacket at my place,” he murmured, nodding at the bag. “Plus I wanted to see how you’re doing.”

     Frowning, Stiles sat up and crossed his legs beneath him. His heart flip-flopped in excitement at the thought that Derek had been worried enough about him to go out of his way to check in, but even the oblique reference to the fight darkened his mood again. “Why? Did you talk to Scott?”

     The look Derek shot him was both amused and tolerant. “No, he left before the rest of us got back from our run. But I figured it couldn’t have gone that well if you took off in such a hurry that you didn’t stop to put your shoes on.” He studied Stiles’s face in silence for a moment, then stretched out on the bed next to him. “I can’t sense your emotions, but I could tell Scott was upset through the pack bond. He’s angry and sad. It stood to reason you were probably feeling the same way, if not worse.”

     Hearing that Scott was sad was only a meagre comfort to Stiles. He gave an unimpressed huff and flopped down onto the mattress on his back, glaring up at the ceiling. “He’s your wolf,” he said. “Maybe you should go check in on him, too.”

     If Derek was annoyed by the petty remark, he didn’t show it, and instead laid a hand upon Stiles’s bare thigh, gently stroking his skin against the grain of the hair. It was solid, warm, comforting, much like Derek himself. Maybe he knew, as Stiles did, whom the anger was really directed at. “If Scott wanted to talk to me, he could’ve stuck around or joined the pack run. Besides, you’re my priority right now.”

     “Your priority, huh?” Stiles shifted onto his side so he was facing Derek, quietly pleased when the werewolf did the same without removing his hand from Stiles’s leg. Because he liked to be helpful, Stiles hitched his thigh over Derek’s hip to bring their bodies closer together. “I didn’t know you cared so much.”

     Derek snorted. “You’re an idiot.”

     The words brought back the conversation Stiles had so recently had with his dad, and his expression sobered. “I told my dad about us,” he told Derek softly. “Well, the same version we gave everyone else. I didn’t want a repeat of this afternoon because someone else was out of the loop.”

     There was a moment of silence as Derek took it in, brow slightly furrowed, but then he asked, “How’d he react?”

     Stiles shrugged. “Pretty well, all things considered. Didn’t threaten you with bodily harm. Much. Might want you to come for dinner sometime, though, if you can stomach putting on the charade a while longer.”

     To his surprise, Derek chuckled. “I think I can live with that,” he answered, and slid his hand up to rest on Stiles’s hip. His face went a touch more serious. “ _Are_ you okay, though?”

     “I’ll survive.”

     “Not what I asked.”

     It seemed a distinct possibility that any of Stiles’s attempts to dodge the question would be shot down, so he chewed his lip and met Derek’s gaze, indulging himself a moment to study the fascinating green-brown gradient of Derek’s irises. “I’m tired,” he admitted. “Tired and hurt and bummed out. But I’m glad you came.”

     “Then you should sleep,” Derek suggested. “Not much you can do about the other stuff right now, but you can rest and hope it all looks better in the morning.”

     “When does it ever?”

     “Sometimes it does,” said Derek in a surprisingly firm voice, the kind that strongly suggested Stiles should shut up and listen to someone else for once. “I’m sure Scott’ll come around eventually. He’ll fume for a bit, but I think you should talk to him. You know, when you’re ready. This isn’t the hill your friendship should die on.”

     “My dad said the same thing. Don’t know if I buy it yet or not. ” Stiles rubbed his face against the pillow and fought off a yawn. “Sleep sounds pretty good, though,” he mumbled, closing his eyes.

     He felt a gentle squeeze against his hip and then the mattress dipped as Derek slid off the bed. Stiles’s eyes flew open in confusion and he grabbed Derek’s wrist before he could withdraw.

     “Where are you going?” he asked, hating the desperation in his voice.

     Derek gestured at the window, like that clarified anything. “I’m going to let you get some rest,” he said slowly, appearing confused.

     Ugh, right. Sometimes Stiles forgot telepathy wasn’t actually a thing between them; occasionally he did have to come out and ask for what he wanted, even if he was slow to realize it himself. He hadn’t decided he really liked the weight of Derek lying next to him on his bed, the thought of him watching Stiles fall asleep, until it threatened to disappear.

     “Can you… can you stay? For a little while, I mean. Just.” Stiles pushed up to one elbow and looked up at Derek through his lashes, but just as quickly lost his nerve and flopped back down again, covering his eyes with one hand. “Sorry,” he muttered, when Derek didn’t say anything. “It’s okay if you go, I know you probably want to spend some more time with the rest of the pack. I just… must’ve mistaken you for a security blankie or something at close range. My life coach has been trying to break me out of the habit for _years_.”

     In lieu of a verbal response, Stiles’s history notes were pulled from his hand; he opened his eyes in time to see Derek switch off the light in his bedroom, then begin pulling off his clothes starting with his boots, followed by his socks, jacket, jeans, and Henley. Not knowing whether to be touched or turned on by Derek’s easy acquiescence, Stiles swallowed and shifted farther over to one side of the bed when Derek tugged the blankets back and slid in beneath them. With nothing else to do, Stiles drew his knees up to his chest to aid in kicking the duvet and sheets down so he could do the same. They lay facing each other in the dark.

     “You don’t mind?” he whispered.

     Giving an inelegant grunt, Derek latched on to Stiles’s elbow and tugged him closer until Stiles got the hint and slid his arms around Derek’s waist, finding himself a comfortable pillow against the place where Derek’s chest met his shoulder. Fuck, he should’ve known Derek was a cuddler. He loved the friction of their leg hair against each other as their legs tangled. He loved the perfect cocoon Derek’s arms made for his body.

     Stiles fluttered his eyes shut and breathed out a long sigh of relief. He needed this even more than he’d thought. A quiet “thanks” had barely passed his lips before Derek tilted his chin up and caught his mouth in a kiss. It was soft, coaxing, deeply searching but void of expectation. Derek pulled away with a small smile Stiles could just make out in the dark.

     “Go to sleep,” he said, stroking his fingers along Stiles’s jaw, and Stiles did.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek comes to a few harsh realizations that his arrangement with Stiles might not be as black and white as he initially thought. Not, of course, that he ever really thought things would stay simple.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH MY GOD FINALLY. I won't even bother to apologize for such a long delay because it's gone way past that by now. But thank y'all for your encouraging messages and your patience, I hope it lives up to the wait! As ever, the lovely [blue_fjords](http://archiveofourown.org/users/blue_fjords/pseuds/blue_fjords) is responsible for the super fast beta, and I owe [Qthelights](http://archiveofourown.org/users/qthelights/pseuds/qthelights) my thanks for her many pep talks along the way.
> 
> This is for [ChaosDragon](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ChaosDragon/pseuds/ChaosDragon), who bidded on me for the [Sterek Campaign Wolf Charity Auction!](http://www.sterekcampaign.com/2012/12/04/december-is-wolf-pack-charity-project-i/) I hope you enjoy your winnings!

         That night, Derek dreamed, for the first time, about Stiles fucking him. He came into it slowly, not unlike the way most people were used to swimming up _out_ of sleep into wakefulness, but instead of coming conscious to a warm bed beneath him and sunshine streaming through his bedroom window, Derek found himself drifting into a moonlit reverie of lazy kisses and a lithe body in his arms. Or, maybe, him in the arms of a lithe body was more accurate. 

     The role reversal both surprised him and didn’t. For a long time after the fire, Derek’s dreams had been defined by the acute sense of powerlessness he felt, then again when hed first become Alpha and made such a spectacular mess of it. That’d changed over time, albeit slowly—both the nature of his dreams and his competence as a leader—but even before he started to accept his lust for Stiles as a matter of course, Derek got used to being the one in control in all his fantasies, the one who called the shots and devised new and clever ways of unravelling Stiles bit by bit. In that respect, at least, his unconscious imaginings had started to shift, coming to resemble reality more and more as he and Stiles got to know one another sexually. And yet, there was nothing quite like the pure, hedonistic pleasure of a dream, revelling in another person’s body without uncertainty or shame, knowing anything was possible and nothing was forbidden. Whether asleep or awake, Derek had come to love having Stiles at his mercy like that; both the soft, shamelessly needy adolescent, rosy-cheeked and drunk on Derek’s kisses, and the fierce, proudly sexual adult who never backed down and revelled in his sensuality like some kind of amber-eyed Dionysus. 

     This time it was some combination of the two, dream-Stiles grinning wickedly down at Derek as he pressed him back onto a soft mattress, then proceeded to use his lips, tongue, and hands to devastating effect. From the start, he held Derek’s wrists firm in his grip, trapped them confidently above his head like he couldn’t dream of Derek ever breaking free. Even as the dream became lucid and Derek realized he was inside his own head, he had no designs on trying to take over when Stiles inhabited the role so prettily.

     Like most dreams, however, the continuity was off. One moment Stiles was mouthing and licking his way down Derek’s body while his hands played skilfully against his cock, driving Derek halfway to distraction, making him beg and plead shamelessly; in the next Stiles was fully on top of him, teeth tugging at one of Derek’s nipples and his fingers wet against his hole, pressing greedily inside, stretching, exploring, claiming. Dream or not, Derek threw his head back and moaned, spreading his legs wider in invitation, needing this, him, everything. And then, before Derek’s brain could catch up, Stiles was bracing himself on one elbow next to Derek’s head on the pillow and nudging his cock inside, splitting him gently open, their chests warm where they pressed together, skin sweat-slick as Derek drew one leg up around Stiles’s waist.

     The pleasure was indescribable, undoing every part of him and making Derek arch and writhe and buck, mouth slack around Stiles’s name even as Stiles guided their mouths together for a messy, breathless kiss. Each thrust of his cock into Derek’s body was smooth and confident and deep, powerful undulations of Stiles’s hips that rammed Derek’s prostate repeatedly and wrenched a moan from him that seemed to come from the centre of his chest. That kind of performance had no business coming from a vestal virgin and was certainly the result of Derek’s mind editorializing a bit, but the pleasure felt so, so real; and Stiles was gasping above him and chanting, “You love me, you love me, you’re in love with me,” against Derek’s face, breath moist and hot. 

     It was mostly babble, but a thrill of terror went through Derek at the declaration, agony at having been found out. It eased something in him, though, released a tightness in his chest he’d been carrying around forever. He felt light, hollowed out, like he finally had space to breathe. Every snap of Stiles’s hips and brush of his stomach against Derek’s cock sent shocks of pleasure through him; he needed to come and needed this to never end, ever, and Stiles whined into Derek’s ear like he was in pain, an oddly begging noise. 

     After a confused moment Derek realized Stiles was waiting for an answer. “I’m in love with you,” he rushed out, then drove a hand into Stiles’s hair to keep their faces close together. Their lips brushed and caught each time Stiles pulled back and slammed back into him, holding him tender and safe in a way Derek hadn’t realized he needed. Derek cried out until he didn’t know his own voice, clutched Stiles tighter as he panted, “I am, I fucking am, you know that.”

     Stiles keened then, shuddered in a way Derek allowed himself to believe was acceptance and said, “Yeah, yeah, you are,” a moment before his body seized up as he came. There was an expression of such rapture on his face that Derek felt the burn of orgasm, until now a faint trembling at the base of his spine, build suddenly to its apex, and suddenly he wasn’t climaxing but gasping awake, warm in the bed where he’d fallen asleep with Stiles. Derek was sweaty across his brow and down his neck, T-shirt damp at the underarms and in the middle of his chest.

     Despite the jolt, Stiles slept on, oblivious, mouth slack and puffing moist breath against Derek’s neck, and as Derek looked down at him and let the sight of Stiles’s gently rising and falling back relax him, something both softened and tightened in him at the same time, causing a sudden dryness at the back of Derek’s throat that tasted like panic. Not just because the dream had left him painfully turned on—though it certainly didn’t help—the afterimage haunted him of Stiles poised above him and fucking so beautifully into him, the self-assured _You love me, you love me, you’re in love with me._ Even the memory of that was enough to make all the hair stand up at the back of Derek’s neck, prickling with fear all over again. Because the issue wasn’t whether or not it was true; it was whether Stiles knew, whether it was something Derek could go on denying to himself or anyone. He already knew in his gut what the answer was.

     For a brief second Derek indulged his own neediness and tugged Stiles closer. It probably made no sense that the source of his anxiety should also be the thing to calm him down, but Derek pressed his lips into the younger man’s hair and breathed in the sleepy, intoxicating smell of him. When Stiles began to murmur and shift, endearingly boyish in the way his hands tried to grasp and clutch at Derek’s shirt, lips smacking in his slumber, Derek quietly sighed and released him, disentangling them carefully so he could get out of bed. It was early still but he was too unnerved to go back to sleep, and it was probably better for him to suffer his internal freak-out in private, without waking Stiles.

     As he pulled on his jeans and then shuffled downstairs for a glass of water, Derek was so lost in his own thoughts that he managed to completely overlook the presence of Stiles’s father in the kitchen until he was standing in the doorway with Jack looking up from reading his morning paper at the table. In front of him sat a _very_ illegal breakfast of fried eggs, toast, hashbrowns, and back bacon. Derek couldn’t see his own face, but he imagined their expressions of surprise were probably pretty similar.

     “Sheriff,” said Derek in greeting, trying to hide the surprise from his voice. 

     He was unsuccessful. Jack’s mouth twitched wryly before he deadpanned, “Derek.” Apparently there was no underestimating what years in law enforcement could do for one’s poker face, because all Derek heard was a calm, steady heartbeat, and beyond his smirk the Sheriff’s face gave absolutely nothing away. Jack gestured at the chair across from him as he began to get up. “Have a seat. There’s some extra food in the oven. Feel like joining me for some contraband bacon? It’s Canadian.”

     Derek wasn’t hungry, really, but it was clear saying so would’ve been pointless. The most he could get away with was a flat “Well, in that case,” as he obediently pulled out the chair Jack had indicated and sat. The Sheriff, having not bothered to wait for Derek’s agreement, was already pulling a plate down from the cupboard. Then he stooped to remove a covered frying pan from the oven where it’d been left to keep warm. That or remain hidden from Stiles, Derek figured. A moment later, as promised, a plate of food was set in front of him, along with a knife, fork, and an empty mug from the drying rack. 

     “Coffee?” asked Jack, picking up the steaming carafe from the counter. He held it up in demonstration, like maybe Derek hadn’t understood the question, but this time there was no mistaking the amused menace in his gaze when Derek started to shake his head and Jack interrupted, “Have some anyway,” and then proceeded to fill the mug almost to overflowing. Derek’s eye twitched a little at that, earning himself an innocent lift of Jack’s eyebrows from across the table as he resumed his seat. Whomever had coined the phrase “like father, like son” must’ve had the Stilinski men in mind; Derek’s respect for the Sheriff notwithstanding, both he and his spawn could be little shits when they wanted to. If nothing else, at least Stiles came by it honestly.

     For a moment Jack just watched Derek consideringly, but said nothing. When Derek lifted his knife and fork to begin eating, figuring he might as well make the most of it, Jack cleared his throat and commented, “I wasn’t aware you’d spent the night,” in as pointed a way as it was possible to say such a thing.

     Calmly setting the knife and fork back down, Derek sat up a little straighter and pushed the plate away from himself slightly. It was a good thing he hadn’t been in the mood for breakfast to begin with, since it didn’t look like the Sheriff’s Canadian bacon would be passing his lips today. “Stiles was pretty upset yesterday after the fight with Scott,” he said easily, assuming, from their conversation the night before, that if Stiles had told his dad about his “relationship” with Derek, he’d probably also mentioned the falling out with his best friend. “I came by to check up on him, and he asked me to stay. It isn’t what you’re probably thinking.”

     Jack smiled, not unkindly. “And what might that be? That you’re in a relationship with a kid who’s six years your junior, and that you spend the night in his bed—under my roof—without running it by me first?”

     Okay, so maybe it was _exactly_ like that, but one of the handy things about being half a decade out of his teens, as Jack was so quick to point out, was that Derek wasn’t so easily freaked out by another’s alpha-male posturing. Even if he happened to be involved with the son of the person in question. However, it was Stiles’s dad, and Derek had only ever been on tenuous terms with the man; he knew when not to push his luck and when it was appropriate to bend knee to keep the peace. Simply put, Derek might not know exactly what was going on with him and Stiles, or what was going on with him in _regards_ to Stiles, but he didn’t want to fuck things up with the kid’s sole remaining parent right out of the gate. He already had enough sketchy history working against him. 

     “I stopped by after you’d left for work,” Derek hedged, and winced when he realized how that sounded. “But you’re right. Given my involvement with Stiles, I understand why you might find my staying over inappropriate.” He hesitated momentarily. “Would it… make you more comfortable if I didn’t come here while you’re not home?” Obviously that was something he’d already violated a few times, but Jack didn’t need to know that.

     Like he knew he was out of his depth in trying to police his son’s activities—no pun intended—Jack sighed, though Derek thought he recognized a wry edge to the sound. “Would that make me more comfortable? Yes. Do I realistically expect Stiles to abide by that rule? Not particularly.” His gaze met Derek’s squarely from across the table. “That kid already spends most of his free time at your house anyway. Don’t think I don’t know what became of his old bed.”

     “Stiles is an important part of the pack,” Derek protested, hearing the defensiveness in his own voice and knowing Jack did, too. “He’s important to _me_. I wanted him to feel like he always has a place among us, that he’s as much at home there as he is here.” To Derek’s surprise, the Sheriff nodded, though he didn’t say anything, seeming to sense that Derek wasn’t done. “This thing with him and me is new,” Derek ventured, “but I… care about him.”

     “You care about him?” Jack sounded disbelieving, but in a way that indicated he thought Derek was being deliberately obtuse. “That’s all, huh?”

     At first Derek couldn’t meet the Sheriff’s gaze, but then he lifted his eyes and said, with a firmness that surprised him, “No, that’s not all.” Unable to parse the self-satisfied way Jack was smirking at him, Derek added, “I’m glad Stiles told you. Despite whatever… differences… we’ve had in the past, I’m glad you’re accepting of this. Accepting of me. I guess. It means a lot that you trust me with him.” He broke off with a tiny shrug, not sure what else to say. 

     “You know that isn’t lightly given,” the Sheriff began, and Derek interjected with an insistent “I know” at the same time Jack added, “nor is my permission to date him. I won’t lie, though—I can’t say I’m wild about the idea of my son dating a werewolf. Especially not one who seems to find himself on the wrong side of the law as much as you’ve done in the past.” Derek fell silent at that, mouth snapping closed. “Even if Stiles is the one insinuating himself in the middle of dangerous situations—and I know that’s the case more often than not—it’s not exactly the kind of thing a parent envisions for their kid. But I also have a pretty good idea this was probably all Stiles’s idea to start with.”

      _If you only knew the half of it_ , thought Derek, but, unable to say that and at a loss for a better response, he just grunted. The frank disapproval and weary resignation wasn’t anything he hadn’t anticipated from the Sheriff’s corner beforehand, since he’d more or less gone through it already when Stiles first clued Jack in on the werewolf activity in Beacon Hills. Jack was as intelligent and perceptive as he was protective—more family traits Stiles had inherited in spades—but Derek could honestly say he would’ve respected the man less if that hadn’t been the case. He, too, knew something about what it meant to feel protective towards Stiles, towards the people you called family. A part of him hoped Jack’s intuition already told him that much, but then again, it was likely Derek wouldn’t be sitting here right now if it hadn’t. 

     “You know better than anyone it’s an exercise in futility to try to get between Stiles and something he’s set his heart on,” he said. Less glibly, he added, “I… I’m just lucky he decided it’s me he wants.”

     “Because you care about him.”

     “You know it’s more than that,” said Derek very quietly, after a long pause. Maybe he could bullshit Stiles and himself and everyone else, but there was no bullshitting the man across from him.

     True to form, there was a subtle softening of Jack’s expression at the words. The warmth he could suddenly sense coming from the Sheriff both confused and bolstered him, and just to test if he was heading into safer waters, Derek picked up the fork again and took a bite of his eggs, relaxing infinitesimally when Jack made no move to interrupt him, not like he’d done the first time. Derek wasn’t stupid. He knew this was the invitation that counted, a sure sign he was welcome to eat and drink at the Sheriff’s table. Maybe it was still on a probationary basis, but at this point Derek was ready to take what he could get. At the same time, he’d undergone actual police interrogations that had troubled him less. He didn’t know when it’d suddenly become so important that he make a good impression on his not-boyfriend’s father.

     The sound of a shower turning on upstairs momentarily distracted both of them, and Derek fought the instinct to twitch his head in that direction and listen for the sound of Stiles stepping beneath the spray, choosing, instead, to stay focused on the conversation at hand so Jack wouldn’t think his mind was elsewhere. When the water continued to run, signalling that they weren’t about to be interrupted by the subject of their chat, a look passed between the Sheriff and Derek, something subtly conspiratorial.

     Leaning forward slightly, Jack folded his arms on the table in a way Derek knew meant he was about to say something important, so Derek stopped eating and met the older man’s sharp blue eyes. “Derek,” said Jack blandly, “I could sit here and describe to you all the creative and painful things I’ll do if you ever break Stiles’s heart, but I won’t bother. You already know imagination is one thing we aren’t lacking in this family.” He smiled like it was a joke, but Derek didn’t think Jack was being the least bit humorous. “So instead I’m going to tell you something else that’ll probably serve you better in the long run.”

     “What’s that?”

     Jack gestured vaguely, seeming to struggle with words, then curled his hands around his coffee cup as a small smile crossed his face. “My son is a lot of things, not all of them complimentary, but he’s also a good judge of character. He’d make a damn fine cop. He’s cynical like one, too, and maybe I could’ve done a better job keeping him from becoming jaded at such a young age, but if nothing else he knows how to trust his instincts. That kid’ll always be able to see people for what they are, and that’s not a quality a lot of people have, not something that can be taught. If they’re hiding something, he’ll know it. If they’re rotten inside, he’ll know it. But he also knows how to see the good inside someone. Even if they might not recognize it in themselves.”

     In spite of himself, Derek said, “What do you want me to do with that, sir?” and immediately regretted it for the unimpressed look Jack flashed him. In retrospect, it was a pretty dense thing to ask, because Derek knew—as Jack did—they both were perfectly aware of his meaning.

     “You don’t gotta do anything with it, Derek,” Jack said with more patience than Derek probably deserved at that point. “But I’m telling you I trust my son, and he trusts you, so that’s about as strong a character reference as you’re likely to ever get in this house. I’m willing to take Stiles’s opinion at face value there, and from one man to another—well, maybe you ought to consider doing the same. Don’t make the mistake of failing to pay him the same courtesy on account of anything else that might’ve happened to you in the past.”

     Dropping his eyes back down to his hands, Derek said nothing for a few moments because he wasn’t really sure how to respond. Even if he had no idea what to do with it, he tried to take the Sheriff’s advice for what it was. There was no mistaking what Jack was trying to say; but Derek found himself quietly flustered by the frank assessment and the indication that Derek’s self-esteem issues, while drastically improved from a few years ago, were readily apparent even to someone he barely knew. Or perhaps Jack had just gotten good at recognizing it in others, given an overwhelming excess of confidence wasn’t among his son’s primary characteristics.

     From across the table, there was another sigh, gentler this time. Jack offered Derek a smile that was only kind, and Derek shuddered a little in sudden memory of when his own dad used to smile at him like that, soft and indulgent of his son’s frequent obliviousness. In all fairness, Derek had been sixteen at the time, and had lot less of an excuse for it now. 

     “You get that Stiles is in love with you, right?” Jack asked softly. “I noticed a change in him awhile ago, ever since you two started getting more chummy together, but hearing him talk about you yesterday pretty much sealed it. I’m not sure he even realizes it yet, but he is. So for Christ’s sake don’t hurt him.” 

     The small speech made Derek jolt, an uncontrollable reflex as if to an electrical shock. If the clank of the utensils on the table didn’t do it, the alarm must’ve shown plainly on his face, because the Sheriff’s expression fell suddenly like he’d been slapped. 

     “Crap,” he said after a tense pause. “Clearly he’s not the only one who didn’t realize it.” Jack covered his face with his hand and slowly drew it down his features, looking in that moment so remarkably like Stiles that Derek had to get the hell out of there. “Look, Derek—” he began, but Derek was already rushing to his feet and almost knocked over the chair in his haste.

     “Sorry,” he said hurriedly, feeling ten different kinds of stupid but unable to stop his own momentum. It was easier than slowing down to think, easier than sticking around to acknowledge the lump of panic rising in his throat at the Sheriff’s revelation. “I just—sorry.”

     Stiles was done his shower and sitting on his bed when Derek got back to his room, dressed once again in the T-shirt and underwear he’d worn to bed the previous night. He looked up with a strangely guarded expression considering how quickly—and loudly—Derek shut the door behind himself. He didn’t go so far as to sag against it, but he was sure his shoulders slumped a little as he crossed the room and executed a surprisingly controlled collapse onto the bed, somehow managing to remain upright.

     That was enough to make Stiles’s brow furrow in concern, and he shifted around until he was kneeling on the mattress next to him, giving himself a few extra inches of height over Derek. “Hey, wha—what’s up?” he asked in an odd voice, putting his hand on Derek’s shoulder. It quickly traveled up his neck to his hair, and then Stiles was slinging a leg over Derek’s thighs to straddle him and murmuring, “You okay, buddy?”

     It was infinitely easier to bury his face in Stiles’s throat than look at him or try to devise an answer, so Derek did that and simply breathed him in for a few beats, his arms going around Stiles’s slender waist while he concentrated on the warmth of Stiles’s skin and his masculine sleep smell and the brush of ticklish hair against his forehead. This felt an awful lot like a precursor to a panic attack—of which Derek had admittedly suffered more than a few, after the fire—but he felt weirdly calm at the same time, his breaths slow and his heartbeat steady. Despite the rushed escape from the kitchen, Derek wasn’t itching to remove himself from Stiles’s bedroom or his embrace, but he couldn’t ignore the knot of worry in his belly either.

     Oddly enough, Derek wasn’t freaked out by what Jack had said; none of it had come as a surprise, not hearing the Sheriff’s assessment of his son’s feelings, nor the fatherly, quietly proud acknowledgement of Stiles’s innate ability to see the good in a thing and hold on to it for all he was worth. On some level Derek realized he’d sort of known it was coming this whole time, that this thing between him and Stiles hadn’t just started up in a vacuum and magically resulted in some pretty intense feelings from his end. It was no fluke, how people fell together—fell into each other, fell in love. 

     The way Stiles sought him out the previous day had unravelled something painful and hoping in him, made him go weirdly calm and quiet like Derek hadn’t felt in years. He’d felt silent on the inside even amidst the fireworks of having Stiles’s mouth on him, found the quiet persisted as Stiles carelessly undid everything Derek had so carefully built up around himself in almost ten years. The way he’d touched Derek’s face afterwards in the shed and held him, looked into him like he expected to be doing that for the rest of his life… No, that kind of thing didn’t happen by accident, and certainly not in the absence of something deeper. That much, Derek knew. Had known all along this was where they were headed, as surely as he knew he’d probably been in love with Stiles forever and just never possessed the balls to admit it to himself. That was kind of a trend in Derek’s life.

     As it turned out, though, admitting the way he felt about Stiles was easy. Maybe the dream had helped his subconscious come to terms with it or whatever, but the knowledge didn’t unmoor anything in him Derek wasn’t willing to let go of. The real trouble was admitting how fucking scary it was to love something you didn’t expect to keep. And Derek didn’t. Expect to keep Stiles, that is. 

     It humbled him, really, how Stiles had thrown himself into the fantasy they’d surrounded themselves with—the same way Stiles did anything: unabashedly. In a strange way, that worried Derek more than his own feelings. He was used to tamping down on his own emotions, boxing them up where they couldn’t hurt anyone, much less himself, but there wasn’t anyone more opposite to that than Stiles. Derek knew Stiles would give him everything—body, heart, soul, the whole package—if he asked, which would make it that much more painful for both of them when Stiles figured out the things he wanted as a teenager weren’t the same things he’d come to want as an adult. He was already on the cusp; it would happen any day now, any _moment_ now, as soon as Stiles realized he could do better, that there was so much more out there than Derek or Beacon Hills could give him.

      _When I was a child, I used to speak like a child, think like a child, reason like a child,_ thought Derek. _When I became a man, I did away with childish things._

     It was only a matter of time. Because maybe Stiles loved him, and maybe he really believed it was real. Hell, maybe it _was_. But no one stayed with their first love forever. After all, Derek had once loved Kate.

     Derek couldn’t hold back the frustrated whine he made at his own train of thought. Stiles, likely perturbed by the noise and the hot, quick breaths Derek was puffing against his neck, drew Derek’s head back and just… studied him, not so differently from the way he’d done the day before, his palm warm where it rested alongside Derek’s cheek. 

     “Talk to me, man,” he said softly, only the barest hint of pleading in his tone. “You’re kind of freaking me out a little.”

     “I don’t want to talk,” Derek said at last, highly aware that not talking was probably responsible for 99 percent of their current mess. He tipped his head forward and clenched his fingers into the flesh of Stiles’s back at the same time, huffing quietly when Stiles instinctively arched his spine, bringing their bodies closer until Derek’s mouth fell against his collarbone. Nosing the V-neck of Stiles’s shirt out of the way, he sucked a gentle mark there that made Stiles gasp before Derek lifted his head again. 

     Unsurprisingly, Stiles was still watching him closely, though his eyes had fallen to half-mast and turned dark, lashes smudgy and haunted-looking against his cheeks. He looked heartbreakingly vulnerable like that, and Derek thought that’s what it looked like to need something so bad you didn’t know how to ask for it. In the end, the way Stiles’s lips were slightly parted was too difficult for Derek to resist even in light of the direction his thoughts had taken. 

     At no more than a gentle tug against his hips, Stiles went easily, falling into Derek like he’d been fighting against some invisible pull to keep himself from doing so. Derek heard his relieved, grateful gasp as their mouths crashed together, Stiles’s kisses as forceful and desperate as if they’d been apart for months and not minutes. Derek clutched at him and Stiles clutched back, hands making fists in Derek’s hair, and they bit and sucked and licked at each other’s lips until they went tumbling backwards onto the mattress, Stiles still trying to crawl over him.

     He was a writhing live wire in Derek’s arms primed to set them both alight. Derek let himself be carried away by Stiles’s fervour as Stiles clutched, moaned, and pushed at him, his movements taking on an edge of franticness. The skin Derek sought out with his hands beneath Stiles’s T-shirt was hot and achingly smooth, and at first touch Derek groaned quietly in his chest and held on, rolling them onto their sides to give him some amount of control over where things were going. Stiles seemed to realize the position made it easier for him to arch and rub against Derek’s body, entirely too catlike for his own good. Derek slotted his leg between Stiles’s thighs, giving him something to ride against, and the friction made Stiles keen softly at the back of his throat almost right away.

     When they rolled again so that Derek was the one on top, Stiles’s hips pinned beneath him, it was entirely Stiles’s doing. There was no doubting how much he liked to run the show but he came alive like this, too, opened himself up to it with his mewling groans and harsh breathing like he needed Derek like air, and not for the first time it left Derek at a loss. He could give Stiles pleasure and he could make him scream, sure, but the way Stiles could lay it all bare under him felt so much braver than anything Derek knew how to do. And in true Stiles fashion, he wouldn't accept anything less than the same from Derek. The issue wasn’t that Derek couldn’t or didn’t want to let himself unravel like that for Stiles; he just didn’t know how he was expected to come back from that when, someday, there wouldn't be a _Stiles_ to come back to.

     “Stop thinking so loud,” Stiles hissed, breathless, in the moment he chose to wrench his mouth away from Derek’s. He was sweaty and vibrating with want, pupils dilated and mouth vivid red, his cock a shockingly hard line against Derek’s belly. As always, the sight made Derek want to crumple in helpless longing. “I need you here with me right now,” said Stiles. “I wanna feel you inside me. I’m ready. Ready to go all the way.”

     The words were a splash of cold water, a needle screeching off the record track. Derek wrenched his head back and looked down at Stiles with a wide-eyed expression he could feel on his own face. “What?”

     Stiles grunted, a harsh, needy sound, or maybe it just felt that way because of how he grasped at Derek’s arms and the fabric of his T-shirt. Clinging. His hands were literally trembling. “You heard me. This is it. You wanted me to be ready and I’m ready. I want you to fuck me.”

     God, Derek needed—wanted—that, too, didn’t even think there was a way to equate something so powerful with weakness, but he couldn’t shake the thoughts from earlier, the ugly awareness and anticipation that made him so sure he would barely get to lay hands on the thing he wanted most before it got snatched away, before it took off for a big, new, exciting life that didn’t include Derek. There’d be other people who felt this way about Stiles, he was sure of it, only a matter of time before Stiles figured out he could have anyone he wanted, that Derek was nothing more than an old hometown fling that might’ve once been something more. It was a selfish and self-pitying way to think and Derek knew it, but he wasn’t just scared of what the future would bring starting from this moment onwards; he was fucking terrified.

     Like he always did, Stiles had read and deciphered his silence in two seconds flat. “Is this because of what my dad said to you,” he said, voice suddenly thick-sounding. There was a barely perceptible moment where the beautiful openness of his face started to shut down on itself, close off. “It is, isn’t it.”

     Derek reared back. He didn’t know why the hell it’d taken him so long to realize it, but Stiles’s skin didn’t smell like soap from the shower and his hair was bone-dry against Derek’s hand. “You were listening to our conversation,” he said suddenly, eyes narrowing. He wanted to look stern but his tone betrayed how stupidly surprised he felt; then again, he should’ve known by know to put a stunt like that past Stiles. “You were up there eavesdropping almost the whole time, weren’t you?”

     A muscle twitched in Stiles’s jaw but he didn’t deny it.

     “Was he right?” Derek forced out in almost a wheeze. “Are you in love with me?”

     For a moment Stiles looked conflicted and Derek knew he was deciding whether or not to lie. But when his expression crumpled ever so slightly, Derek knew this was a rare occasion where Stiles elected to tell the truth, the urge to protect his dignity be damned. In reality it just looked like he was about to cry, eyes wet and fucking huge in his face. “What does it matter?” he whispered. “Would it really be so bad if I were?”

     He was up and off the bed before he was even aware of moving, of launching himself backwards, and even without looking at Stiles Derek knew how hurt he would be by that, by Derek withdrawing as though repulsed. He was, except Stiles had it the wrong way around. Derek wasn’t scrambling to get away because Stiles was the one who frightened him.

     There was nothing wrong with taking one last look, Derek thought, but he resisted with everything he had as he scrambled for his jacket and boots off the floor, knowing if he allowed himself even a single glance there was no chance of him leaving. He knew what he’d see there, anyway, Stiles looking small and betrayed in that way he had of making himself seem to disappear beyond anyone’s notice, an ability he relied on like a lifeline no matter how loud and brash he liked to make himself appear the rest of the time; looking, ultimately, like Derek had just crushed whatever tenuous hope they’d both allowed to grow inside themselves over the last few weeks, a feeble nurtured trust that they might just be what they’d needed all along. Stiles was that, for Derek—he’d known it for some time now. But Derek didn’t have the stomach to face the inevitable when Stiles realized Derek wasn’t that person for _him_. 

      “I’m sorry, I can’t,” Derek choked out on his way to the window, hating the words as he said them. “I thought I could, but I can’t.”

     And just like that, he was off and running.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YOU GUISE, I DONE UPDATED. I bet you never thought you'd see the day, huh? Me either, to be honest. Despite my best intentions at finishing this fic, I was starting to despair that I just wouldn't be able to pull it together--and I still haven't, since there's one chapter to go, plus an epilogue, but this is progress!
> 
> Many thanks to blue_fjords for the quick beta and for her continued enthusiasm for this story, even months later and long past the point of any reasonable person holding out hope it might actually continue. You're the best!

     The unspoken rule of small towns was that it was always, _always_ just a matter of time before you ran into someone you had no desire to see, and at precisely the moment you didn’t want to see them. And the odds were it would happen in the last place you’d ever want to have a public confrontation. Ironically, big cities were much safer for anonymity; Derek had hardly ever run into people he knew in New York, except for those who also frequented his regular haunts like the corner bodega or the neighbourhood coffee spot. You could avoid someone or be avoided for _years_ in NYC, which was how most New Yorkers preferred it. Small towns, by comparison, were just asking for trouble. There was a reason Derek lived out in the woods, and even then there was no escaping the fact that there was, well… no escape.

     Rationally, Derek knew this, knew it was inevitable that one day he would turn a corner at the supermarket and bump into someone who had a bone to pick with him about Stiles. Even if he’d started buying his groceries at the exorbitantly priced Whole Foods across town, where Stiles and his dad never shopped. It was better that way: Derek tended to prefer eating organic, anyway, and at the moment there was no shortage of people who thought Derek was the bad guy. Even Erica, who’d so loudly voiced her opinion about Derek and Stiles’s “relationship” ( _Air quotes intended_ , thought Derek bitterly), had been shooting him plenty of judgemental looks over the last two weeks, and Boyd’s eyebrows had been distinctly unimpressed with Derek’s sudden hermit routine. Probably the only reason Scott hadn’t come for Derek’s head on a platter was because things were still tense with him and Stiles, too, at least according to Isaac. It wasn’t reassuring to Derek to find he and Scott finally had something in common. Shit, maybe they ought to form a support group.

     While he’d been fortunate enough, so far, to have avoided all run-ins that might pose a real threat to his dignity, like Lydia or the Sheriff, ultimately his judgement came in the form of Jackson’s friend Danny. Who, as it turned out, might’ve been more accurately described as “Stiles’s friend Danny,” given the circumstances. From the moment Danny laid eyes on him from the opposite end of the meat counter, he seemed prepared to remind Derek of this fact. There was no reality in which Derek was prepared for that confrontation, especially since he knew how he must look: like someone who’d lost the will to live, probably, in his ratty sweatpants and uncombed hair and fourteen-day beard growth. The shadows under his eyes had started to resemble ugly bruises after the fourth sleepless night, and while Derek hadn’t stooped so low as to stop showering or brushing his teeth, you’d hardly know it, to look at him. The epic stink-eye he’d received from the girl at the deli counter had spoken quite clearly to that point.

     Weighing a package of ground meat in each hand, Danny eyed him critically, gaze flickering up and down in an apathetic once-over that lingered on Derek’s ensemble, particularly the old T-shirt with holes in the collar that was probably inside out. Derek huffed out a resigned sigh and folded his arms, meeting Danny’s eyes and bracing himself for whatever lecture was likely coming his way. He could tell the kid was working up to something, if the unhappy set of his mouth was anything to go by, but instead Danny just arched an eyebrow at him and tossed both packages of meat into his shopping cart, then wheeled past Derek without a word.

     He did, however, deliberately bash their shoulders together as he passed by, and although Derek rolled his eyes and refused to let himself stagger back, he supposed it could’ve been worse. Danny could’ve rolled the shopping cart over his foot or aimed it right at Derek’s crotch, could’ve gotten up in his face or punched him in the nose, but it seemed he was a big enough person to let the encounter go without antagonizing Derek further. He’d made his displeasure obvious with a single look, and while Derek could think of a few deserving names Danny might’ve called him, there wasn’t really a whole lot more to be said. He was an ass and he’d done Stiles wrong. The end. None of Stiles’s friends could tell Derek anything he didn’t already know, couldn’t make him feel worse than he already felt.

     Derek went about the rest of his shopping in relative peace, stocking up on enough snacks, drinks, and fresh fruits and vegetables to feed the army otherwise known as his pack—even though Allison, Lydia, and Scott had made themselves conspicuously scarce, along with Stiles. It cost a fucking fortune and normally he liked to assign grocery duties on a rotating basis, but this was good, this was productive: it was healthy for him to get out of the house and go about his business like normal, keep his mind off the giant fucking train wreck that was his love life and relationship with his best friend, which, unluckily for him, happened to be one and the same. For once in his life, Derek was totally thought-out on the subject. That didn’t prevent him from lying awake at night thinking about Stiles, but he’d progressed from frantic thoughts about what the fuck he should do to accepting that he’d made a horrible botch of things and deserved every ounce of Stiles’s anger. Sometimes you just ran out of ways to feel, and Derek had more or less grown accustomed to the status quo he’d set for himself in the last two weeks, even if it was a shitty one.

     When Derek emerged from the store hauling three paper sacks full of food, he found Danny leaning against his car with his arms folded, looking what Derek supposed was meant to pass as intimidating. That Derek hadn’t predicted this confrontation was probably a sign that he was losing his edge. Just because Danny had elected not to call Derek out in the cereal aisle didn’t mean he’d forfeited his right to tell Derek off.

     Derek wasn’t surprised, exactly, but he covered up whatever apprehension he might’ve felt by scowling and saying, “What do you want?” as he set his groceries down on top of the trunk of his car. Danny was still glaring at him when Derek turned to face him, dark eyes unfriendly, so Derek decided to save him the trouble of whatever it was he’d come here to say. “I know you’re here about Stiles, okay, but you can save it. There’s nothing you can say or do that’s gonna change the situation. It is what it is, and whatever happened is between him and me. All you people who think you’re doing Stiles a favour by coming to intimidate me really need to look up what ‘exercise in futility’ means.”

     A quiet laugh emerged from Danny’s throat at that, and he shook his head, mouth quirking up humourlessly. “Maybe, but I’m not here to intimidate you, Hale. Unlike everyone else, apparently, I can see straight through your bullshit. So while you’re breaking out your asshole dictionary, you should try looking up ‘self-denial,’ too.”

     Arching an eyebrow, which was usually all Derek needed to do to convey his disbelief, he set a hip against the side of the car and met Danny’s eyes, then folded his arms in a mirror of Danny’s position. “Okay, I see. You’re just here to psychoanalyze me, then.”

     “Don’t need to,” said Danny with a shake of his head. “I don’t give enough of a shit about you to waste time trying to figure out what’s going on in your head. Plus you’re a lot more transparent than you think you are; that’s one thing Stiles always got right about you. But the difference between me and all of Stiles’s other friends is that I happen to know what’s really been going on with you and him.”

     “Oh yeah?”

     With a roll of his eyes, Danny unfolded his arms and hooked his thumbs in the pockets of his jeans. “There’s no point playing dumb. Stiles told me all about your little agreement to help him lose his virginity. Everyone thinks you two just went through a messy breakup, but I know the real story.”

      Derek snorted, but it was a poor disguise—at least to himself—for how his heart seemed to lurch in his chest at Danny’s words. “And what’s that?” he challenged. “For someone who claims not to give a shit about me, you seem to have given this an awful lot of thought.”

     “I give a shit about Stiles,” Danny said fiercely, stepping in close so that he and Derek were practically toe-to-toe. It was a wonder he didn’t go so far as to poke Derek in the chest, but it seemed like a close thing. “He’s my friend, and I take objection when people fuck over my friends. You didn’t see the state he was in two weeks ago, but I did. It was fucking awful, how crushed he was. And what for? Because you’re too much of a chickenshit to give him the kind of relationship he deserves?”

     “You said yourself that Stiles and I weren’t in a relationship and never intended to be.” With a shake of his head and a derisive laugh he didn’t believe, Derek turned his eyes heavenward. “It was a dumb arrangement that got out of hand. I never should’ve agreed to it in the first place, okay? I see that now. Stiles got too attached, and I didn’t want him to get hurt even more in the long run.”

     “That how you been justifying it to yourself?” Danny shot back, and his angry gaze all but burned into Derek’s when he finally returned his eyes to Danny’s face. “Jesus, you’re a shitty liar, Hale. Maybe you’re able to buy your own bullshit, but I know your secret. I can read the signs where Stiles couldn’t. He told me what you said to him, how you treated him, and that’s not the stuff a guy says to someone when he’s just looking to get his dick wet.”

     “What are you trying to say?” Derek growled, suddenly sure he didn’t want to hear the answer. In fact, he wanted to be as far away from this conversation as humanly possible, but couldn’t seem to work up the nerve to just walk away. That’s all it would’ve taken, but he couldn’t do it. It was like being unable to look away from a train wreck he was smack in the middle of.

     The expression on Danny’s face was unfairly smug, but the look in his eyes was worse, because all Derek saw there was pity. “You’re in love with him, too, aren’t you?” At Derek’s mulish silence, he continued, “You probably have been for longer than you’d be willing to admit to anyone, yourself included. I don’t know whether to call that delicious irony or just sad, because at the end of the day Stiles is still left with a broken heart. The only difference is he’s not the only one.”

     Derek’s first instinct was to open his mouth to form an angry retort, but the moment he did, he realized there was nothing he felt he _could_ say. What was the fucking point? A denial would be nothing but a blatant lie to his own ears and one Danny wouldn’t buy anyway. Because Danny didn’t need to ask Derek how he felt, he _knew_ , and had made it pretty clear no amount of protestation on Derek’s part would sway him from his belief. Derek had no idea what Stiles had told him to cement it in Danny’s mind that Derek was head over heels in love with him, but it seemed like whatever it was, Danny had deftly read between the lines. Maybe he hadn’t even bothered to tell Stiles his suspicions, not that it mattered now.

     Growling deep in his chest, feeling more vulnerable and angry with himself than he had in years, Derek stormed over to the driver’s side door and got in the car. As he fired up the ignition and gunned it out of there, so fast that his forgotten groceries tumbled off the trunk and erupted in a violent splatter of colour against the parking lot blacktop, Derek was fairly certainly he left Danny without any doubt as to whether his hunch was correct.

 

* * *

 

     Rather than return to the Whole Foods with his proverbial tail between his legs—that one outing had required Derek to summon up every once of his willpower to leave the house, and now with the added embarrassment of having caused a scene in the parking lot, it was officially gone—Derek elected to scrape together what remaining provisions he could find in the house to prepare dinner for himself, Erica, Boyd, and Isaac that night, which turned out to be a truly uninspired meal of spaghetti swimming in canned marinara sauce. The look Boyd shot him clearly indicated that he would have much preferred staying home to enjoy his mother’s cooking, since Derek doubted the spaghetti had even been cooked _well_ , but he was trying, okay? That Erica and Isaac neglected to give him shit about it spoke to how pathetically he was broadcasting his emotions, and it was with reluctant gratitude for his pack’s ability to occasionally demonstrate tact that he left them with the dishes and went to bed. It was barely eight o’clock.

     The following day, still holed up at home with a stack of library books he figured it was as good a time as any to get through, Derek was equal parts surprised and wary when the sound of Scott’s mother’s old Toyota approached the house. Glad he’d bothered to put on pants that morning, he abandoned his borrowed copy of Auster’s _New York Trilogy_ on the couch and went to meet Scott at the front door. He swung it open at the same time Scott finished hauling two reusable grocery bags, overstuffed with produce, from the back seat of the car. Giving Derek a brisk once-over as he came bounding up the front steps, Scott’s eyebrows shot up in clear response to Derek’s unkempt appearance.

     “Holy crap, you look like Wolverine on a bender,” he said, pushing his way into the house without so much as a by-your-leave. “There are two more of these you could help bring inside.”

     Scott jerked his chin in the direction of the car, and for a moment Derek didn’t know whether to do as instructed, gape, or refuse being told what to do. Eventually he decided he was too curious about what Scott was up to to look a gift horse in the mouth. The kid had groceries. Derek had none, and he was pretty sure Erica would stage an intervention if dinner remotely resembled last night’s sad state of affairs.

     “What’s all this for?” he asked when he’d returned to the kitchen carrying what was left of the grocery haul. Scott was already putting stuff away in the fridge, while scattered across the island countertop were three jugs of milk, a watermelon, various other sealed packages of chicken and steak, a mound of produce, plus various other piles of dry or nonperishable goods that also needed putting away. It wasn’t Whole Foods stuff, but he’d bought enough food to last the pack a solid two weeks, even despite the rate at which they could pack it away.

     “Isaac told me about last night’s attempt at ‘dinner,’” Scott answered evenly, and while Derek could hear the dubious emphasis in his voice, his tone didn’t sound judgemental. Derek wondered how much that had to do with Scott having been raised in a single-parent family, where meals had probably been as much a matter of convenience as nutrition. Melissa was a good mom, Derek thought, and he’d certainly never seen any evidence to the contrary, but she also worked a lot. He’d heard enough times from Stiles that he and Scott had both practically been raised on a diet of spaghetti or boxed mac ’n cheese, especially when they were old enough to start cooking for themselves. Derek and Laura’s life in New York had been much the same, following the fire.

     “So?”

     This time, Scott didn’t bother to hide the roll of his eyes. He shoved the fridge door closed and leaned against it as he turned his frank gaze toward Derek head-on. “ _And_ I also found out about what happened at Whole Foods yesterday. So despite the fact that I had to drop out of senior algebra, I can still put two and two together. You need someone to pick up the slack, since obviously no one else could be bothered to do it.”

     The thought of word having gotten out to half the town about the Whole Foods incident made Derek want to bury his head in his heads, so he did his best to put it out of his mind. Instead, he was about to ask how an eighteen-year-old kid managed to afford this many groceries on a part-time vet assistant’s salary, especially since Scott tried to help his mom out with household expenses, when Scott flashed a quick smile.

     “Don’t worry, Erica swiped your credit card this morning and slipped it to me at school. I have final period free, so all I did was grab the stuff at the store and forge your signature.” After fishing around in his jacket pocket for a moment, Scott withdrew the card in question and handed it over to Derek. “Platinum Amex,” he commented. “Must be nice.”

     “That still doesn’t explain why you did all this,” Derek said, ignoring Scott’s—frankly stupid, given where the bulk of Derek’s money came from—jab. “I appreciate the gesture and the touching show of concern, Scott, but you never help out with pack groceries since you rarely eat here, and you’re not one to fish for information. What is this really about?”

     A rather petulant look crossed Scott’s face, and he seemed to be on the verge of pouting. That was so unlike him that Derek immediately knew two things: his assessment was right on the money, and whatever had brought Scott here made him really uneasy. “Maybe I really was just concerned,” he insisted. “It’s my pack, too.”

     “Well, I’m touched, but if that’s all it is, then you’re welcome to leave at any time. You can see I’m perfectly fine.”

     “You’re not, dude, and we both know it.”

     Scott folded his arms and levelled Derek with a look that was a lot older than his years, one that made it little wonder how Scott had established himself as Derek’s second-in-command despite their initial differences. Then he sighed, shoulders slumping, and went right back to looking like a normal teenager who all too often didn’t have a fucking clue what he was doing. Derek knew the feeling.

     “Okay, okay, you’re right,” Scott admitted with a sigh. “I came to talk to you about something, and before I even say anything, I know you’re not going to like it.”

     Immediately, Derek’s hackles raised. How else was he supposed to respond to an opening like that? “Scott. What did you do.”

     Scott’s hands flew up and his eyes went wide in an honest parody of the puppy-dog look Derek knew drove Stiles up the wall, for all that it was eerily effective. “Nothing! I swear. Nothing yet. That’s why I’m here.” Clearing his throat a little, he reached once again into his jacket pocket, this time on the other side, and pulled out a small velvet box.

     Derek’s eyebrows shot up even as his heart immediately clenched in his chest, knowing suddenly where this conversation was going. Naturally, he tried to cover it up with sarcasm, but his voice came out strained to his own ears. “Aw, Scott. You could’ve just told me how you felt.”

     “Fuck off,” Scott snapped.

     He tossed the box to Derek with the obvious intention for Derek to look inside. He caught it easily, of course, and when he opened it saw exactly what he’d been expecting, which was a small diamond ring--vintage, from the look of it. It was pretty and exactly Allison’s style, even Derek could see that, but he couldn’t prevent the small, frustrated sigh that escaped him.

     “Scott.”

     “I know, I know. You think it’s too soon.”

     With another roll of his eyes, Scott began to pace around the kitchen in a way that immediately made Derek’s blood pressure spike because of how much it reminded him of an anxious Stiles. He was willing to bet that Scott and Stiles barely registered how alike they were in their mannerisms sometimes, even if they’d fallen out. Quite probably, that’d always be the case, even when they were old and grey. Derek suddenly had a viciously clear mental image of Stiles still wearing dumb T-shirts and talking with his mouth full at seventy, maybe while a bemused Scott and Allison looked on, and the thought made him wince.

     Scott wasn’t done, though. “But I’m not here to ask your advice about whether it’s the right time or if we’re too young, because I know how I feel, and waiting would just be putting off the inevitable. I’m here to ask your permission, that’s all.”

     A rebuttal had been building up in response to Scott’s words, but at that, Derek’s counterargument screeched to a halt. “My permission? What the fuck for?”

     Scott shrugged. “You know. Because even though Allison is technically part of the pack, this would kind of cement it. Or at least officially tie our pack to the Argents. Even if I know I’m going to marry Allison someday, I figured I should at least have a conversation with you about it first.”

     “To what end? So I can refuse to give you my blessing before you go ahead with it anyway?” God, sometimes Derek didn’t know whether Scott was truly thick or just insolent. He strongly suspected the latter. Literally their entire relationship was based on a foundation of Derek telling Scott not to do something and Scott ignoring him. Once upon a time, he’d thought it had a lot to do with Stiles’s influence, but he’d long ago come to appreciate that Stiles was the more circumspect of the two. Knowing how futile it would be to point out what a rash idiot Scott was being, Derek tried a different tack. “Have you spoken to Stiles about this?”

     The question genuinely seemed to take Scott aback. “Stiles? No, of course not. I mean, he’s always known that I’d propose to Allison eventually, but this in particular…” Regret came through his expression loud and clear, no matter how much Derek could tell Scott was trying not to let it show. “No. You know we aren’t exactly on speaking terms at the moment. Seems you and I have that in common.”

     Derek refused to touch that one. “Well, maybe you should. I know you said you didn’t come here looking for my advice, but you obviously wanted to talk to someone about it. Stiles is probably more capable than anyone of giving you the perspective you’re looking for.”

     At that, an angry, exasperated breath hissed past Scott’s teeth. “Again, not really best buds right now, dude. Even if I did pick up the phone and try to talk to him, I doubt he’d listen. You heard how pissed he was—is—at me.” Scott hung his head. “Maybe he’s just right and we’ve outgrown the friendship. It happens.”

     Rolling his eyes, Derek snapped the ring box closed and stepped closer to return it to Scott’s hands, rather than tossing it back across the kitchen like Scott had. For a moment he considered reaching out to put a hand on Scott’s shoulder the way he would have done with Erica or Boyd or Isaac or Stiles, once upon a time, but even if Derek and Scott knew they’d always have each other’s backs, they’d never really reached a point in their relationship where they trusted each other enough to provide comfort. In a lot of ways, they still weren’t friends. Not like Scott and Stiles were—or had been. Not like Derek and Stiles either, for that matter.

      “Or maybe you should stop bitching and feeling sorry for yourself and apologize, even if you don’t think you’ve done anything wrong. If anything, that probably means you did.” The maudlin direction his own thoughts was taking angered him, and that was almost certainly why Derek’s words came out sounding unnecessarily harsh. Yeah, and it probably had nothing at all to do with how much of a hypocrite he was.

      _Good advice, asshole_ , he added to himself silently, but right now this wasn’t about Derek and Stiles and everything that remained unresolved between them. It was Scott and Stiles and how much Derek knew it was killing them both not to be living in each other’s pockets anymore.

     Surprisingly, a wistful half smile crossed Scott’s face, prompting Derek to cock his head in confusion, eyebrows quirking a silent question. “Oh, nothing,” Scott answered, waving a hand vaguely. “It’s just funny. Stiles once gave me the exact same piece of advice about Allison.”

     The admission made Derek uncomfortable for all Scott wasn’t saying out loud. “Yeah, well, you might both be idiots sometimes, but sometimes you get it right, too.”

     Chuckling, Scott shook his head. “It’s all Stiles, man. You and I both know we wouldn’t be standing here today if it weren’t for him. He was always the one with the brilliant insight.”

     “You should give yourself more credit.” It cost him almost nothing to say, and the way this small bit of praise lit up Scott’s face was—not that Derek would ever admit it out loud—completely worth it. Still, the fact of the matter was that Stiles wasn’t here, and Scott wouldn’t be either if he was really so confident in his desire to propose to Allison as he said. It was a stretch to suggest he’d sought Derek ought to change his mind, to talk him out of getting engaged before he or Allison had graduated high school, but maybe, just maybe, there was still an opportunity for Derek to do a little bit of good here, and steer Scott toward the one person who _could_ talk some sense into him.

     “Listen, Scott,” he began, and tried to soften his voice as much as possible even though each word made him feel like a giant hypocrite. “I’m not going to sign off on a decision that could potentially affect the welfare of the pack before I’m sure things are copacetic between its members. Right now they aren’t, for various reasons. Even if I’m partly responsible for that, there’s no reason why you and Stiles need to go on fighting with each other. My own feelings aside, you should think long and hard about whether proposing to Allison, taking a huge life step like that, is really something you want to do without the support and encouragement of your best friend. Now, or ever.”

     At any other time, the slight tremble of Scott’s lip would’ve been adorable to the point of sickening, but right now it just made Derek’s chest ache. It’d been a while since he’d let a thought like this overcome him, but he had to pause and wonder why he’d ever thought it was a good idea to put himself in charge of a bunch of individuals—kids, really—who were just as confused and lost as he was.

     “I don’t think I can call him my best friend anymore,” Scott murmured, jaw clenched as he visibly fought back tears. Derek didn’t like to see people cry at the best of times, but right now he thought it might gut him if Scott broke down in front of him about Stiles, of all people. He’d barely been holding it together himself ever since the morning he’d run like hell from Stiles’s quiet, perfect admission of love, and this came too close to driving home how epically he’d fucked up, and how Scott wasn’t the only one feeling Stiles’s absence in his life like a gaping wound.

     “Allison means the world to you,” he said tightly. “I know that. But you mean the world to Stiles, too. It might not seem like it right now, but a few years from now, you’re not going to want to look back on the day you proposed and think about how your best friend wasn’t there to share it with you. The thing no one ever tells you about the friendships you form as a kid is that they rarely stay easy—and once you start growing apart from each other, you never stop growing apart unless you fight to stay a part of each others’ lives.”

     Nodding, maybe the most overt sign of agreement Scott had demonstrated toward Derek _ever_ , he sniffled wetly and scrubbed the arm of his jacket over his eyes, muttering a quiet “fuck.” When Scott looked up, his eyes were still moist but he wasn’t crying, and, paradoxically, he was smiling a little. Derek thought it might have almost been in gratitude.

     “Oh my god,” Scott said, chastising himself. “Believe it or not, I didn’t come here to cry about my best bro.” He considered Derek for a moment, and after a pause, added, “ _Our_ best bro.”

     Derek couldn’t help it. He had to reel himself back from the edge by making a snide comment, even if it only looked like he was trying to redeem himself from an unabashedly sappy moment. “Okay, I’m sorry, but that was almost too cheesy for words. I regret ever saying anything.”

     The force of Scott’s smile let Derek know exactly how much he bought the act. “You miss him a lot, don’t you?” he asked, taking Derek by surprise once again.

     Shrugging, Derek busied himself with fiddling with the hem of his T-shirt, though he eventually decided there was no fucking point even trying to deny it. Giving up the ghost, he said, “What are the odds that Stiles heard about what happened at the store yesterday?”

     It was sort of a stupid question, since Danny had been there and apparently had a vested interest in whatever bullshit saga continued to unfold between Derek and Stiles, but he also thought there was a decent chance the conversation might’ve stayed just between them. Derek had replayed their parking-lot exchange quite a few times over the last twenty-four hours, and the more he thought about it, the more evident it became that Danny didn’t seem to think there was much to be gained in telling Stiles that Derek more than returned his feelings. If anything, he probably thought withholding that piece of information was the best way to stick it to Derek and spare Stiles further heartache.

     But Scott was already answering, and his words were too amused to leave Derek in any doubt his minor public breakdown wasn’t widespread knowledge already. “Oh, Stiles definitely knows about what happened at Whole Foods,” he confirmed. “My mom was the one who told me about it, and apparently she heard it from Stiles’s dad, so there’s no chance at all Sheriff Stilinski would’ve passed up the opportunity to let Stiles revel in the epic spectacle you made of yourself. Like, none. I’m surprised you’re not trending on Twitter already.”

     “Great.” It felt like it came out of nowhere, given the couple weeks he’d had, but the wryness of Scott’s expression got him in an unexpected place. It coaxed a small, rueful smile out of Derek, followed by, of all things, a quiet laugh. “Well, then I guess I can look forward to hearing from the rest of the pack what an incompetent failure of an alpha I am once again.”

     “Like anyone ever doubted it, dude.” Apparently having been expecting it, Scott easily dodged the hand Derek swiped out to cuff at his head, and danced away with a smug smile that was a vast improvement upon the air of misery they’d been wallowing in not a moment ago. “But at least now you’ll be able to do it with a fridge full of food, so you can thank me for that later.”

     “We’ll call it even for all the many times I’ve saved you from yourself,” Derek retorted, folding his arms. “Including now.”

     “Whatever, man.” As Scott’s expression turned sombre again, Derek instinctively tensed. “You know, you’re not nearly as terrible as you were a few years ago,” Scott said thoughtfully. “I hope you and Stiles manage to figure out whatever is going on between you. Even though I kind of had my head up my own ass for most of it, I could still see how happy he seemed for a while. You, too. It seems a shame to let that go to waste over whatever it is you’re fighting about.”

     “Yeah, well, he’s not too happy right now,” Derek answered, voice suddenly rough.

     “You could probably change that.” Taking on the stubborn expression that often made Derek want to slap him, even now, Scott parroted, in a shitty impression of what was probably meant to be Derek’s voice, “Maybe you should stop bitching and feeling sorry for yourself and apologize, even if you don’t think you’ve done anything wrong.”

     Against his better judgement, Derek snorted. “Maybe I will, smartass.” He reached for the watermelon Scott had unloaded onto the counter, and pretended to consider it. “Or maybe you should get out of here before I throw this at your head.”

     “You wouldn’t.”

     In spite of his bored tone, Scott was already pocketing the ring box and moving toward the door, and Derek got the sense they’d both gotten more out of the conversation than they’d bargained for when Scott first arrived. He also had a feeling he wouldn’t be seeing any engagement notices in the newspaper, at least not quite yet, and that was enough for a small bit of tension to ease out of his shoulders. Relief at knowing he wasn’t a giant fuckup 100 percent of the time, probably.

     “I know your secret, Derek—you’re nothing but a giant marshmallow, deep down,” Scott called to him as he made it to the front door and stood there for a moment, looking back down the hallway at Derek. He was smiling, genuinely so, and Derek allowed himself to be bolstered by Scott’s seemingly endless supply of optimism. “Stiles wouldn’t like you so much otherwise, if it weren’t true, but that doesn’t mean I won’t still kick you in the balls if you don’t make things right. Plus you look seriously pathetic right now, just so you know.”

     With that, he left, and Derek didn’t move until long after the sound of Scott’s car disappeared down the road and back in the direction of town. Of Stiles, maybe, and Derek did hope Scott took his advice and tried to patch things up between them. Even if he couldn’t see a way forward in doing the same, it helped him breathe easier to think Stiles might be less tied up in knots about one thing. Made a sliver of the ache in his chest hurt less, and that was something.

      Unable to remember what he’d been doing before Scott showed up, Derek took one long look around the kitchen, noticed the time on the clock above the stove, and sighed. The rest of the pack would be home soon and likely looking for food, so he went to the sink, washed his hands, and set about making dinner. It wasn’t much, but it was a start, and everything had to start somewhere.


End file.
